Isa
by JulieVans
Summary: Isa: Born of nobility, taken captive by a warring king. She finds herself torn between loyalty to her slain family and a growing love for her captor. This is an emotionally tangled story of LOVE and HATE. Will love really conquer all? [All Human.] [Isa is a Twilight fanfiction adaptation of the book Viette by whim of the author, Sirin Love.]
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

* * *

All he had to do was ask her to consent and she would be his . . . and she hated herself for it. Passion, affection—she shouldn't crave such things. But yet, on her hands and knees, fingers raw from vigorous scrubbing, her body ached to be touched. She was aware of every movement he made, every breath he took, his eyes on her as she worked.

"Isa?"

Her heart stuttered at the sound of her name, harsh, like a curse on the King's lips. She minded her eyes, looking to the floor and not him when she stood.

"Yes m'Lord?"

"I'd like to bathe before my journey."

She curtsied and hurried from the room, her feet padding softly through the northern corridor to the main foyer. Here, the grand height of the palace was seen in its full glory: massive and towering. The imposing entry was striped with stairs so numerous it had taken her weeks to learn them all.

Frigid wind cut through the coarse fabric of her shawl. Winters back home in Dwyer were never so harsh; they had more pleasant conditions south of the End Sea. But that was all in the past.

Though she had mastered the ability to shove painful emotions and memories aside, the ability to govern her thoughts only carried her so far. Like a scar, she wore her Dwyer origins in the arch of her brow, the tan of her skin, and the delicate shell of her ears. Her past was with her, always. Her reflection in the icy water reminded her of such.

Journeying between the stream and the bathhouse to fill the King's copper basin, she spiraled deeper into her thoughts.

Why, after all the things her Liege had done, did she crave his affection? He only slaughtered her lineage, destroyed her life, yet she felt drawn to him. Moth to his flame. Was it because, as she saw it, he held the power to set her free from her bonds? Because he cut her down to such a lowly state and therefor he alone could raise her up?

Why did she _want_ him to need her for more than scrubbing the floors and tending to his robes and tresses?

The fire lit underneath the belly of the basin slowly heated the water and the room. It took well over an hour's time, by then all buckets had been emptied. She tried not to think of what would come next.

Or rather, what she wished would come next. All of her misery, she imagined, would go away if only he would touch her once, kiss her once. A shred of affection, a crumb of attention. She might have been his war bounty and his servant, but still a woman. Yet, it was so vastly wrong. She was not supposed to want any of such things. Her father would have been ashamed.

Footsteps in the hall reminded her of how much her feelings did not matter. Putting aside doleful fantasies, she turned her attention to the task of gathering the gilded robe, clothes, and other items for the King.

When he entered the room, Isa curtsied, eyes on the floor, and then left. Her heart gripped and pulsed with a blinding staccato, the familiar pain of loneliness leaving a trail behind her that twisted, plucked, and pulled.

Though her eyes stung, she wouldn't shed tears. Not for herself, not for anyone.

ooo

The servant's quarters sat on the other side of the mountain's crest, down the slope a ways. A multi story building which took only a few steps to cross from front to back, but it took a good minute or two to traverse from one end to the other. The ceilings were low, halls narrow.

The main entry, square shaped extending from ground to eaves, contained nothing but a staircase that climbed along the walls with a fireplace on each landing.

Angel, a young thing born and raised in the Western region of Masen, lounged at the top of their pitiable stairs. A knowing smirk on her face, a thieved apple in her hand. She flicked an apple seed into the fire.

"Did you take him?" she asked.

Isa brushed off her joke with a roll of her eyes and walked passed her, down the hall to her room. She didn't want to engage Angel in conversation, speaking of her passion for the King would lead to no where safe. One time before, Isa made the mistake of letting Angel know that she had found him appealing when she was ill and not in her right mind. She regretted it soon after.

"Why not?" Angel bounced behind her, light on her toes and full of spirit.

"I'm not about to take anyone, least of all the King."

Isa shoved open her chamber door and took a broom from the corner. It was a small room and she only had a few belongings, but it was hers and she favored cleanliness over cobwebs and trails of ungodly insects.

It was disheartening to Isa that Angel was so full of pleasantness and she was not. Nothing seemed to weigh her down.

"Why are you so lively?"

"Why are you so sullen?" Angel retorted before sinking her teeth into the crisp fruit. An apple pip tinked to the floor, flicked from Angel's quick little fingers. "He would take you if you offered yourself. Give him a coy glance. He'll never have you if you keep your eyes down."

Glaring over her shoulder, Isa struck the broom through the cleaned corner again. "I'm not going to thrust my bosom in the King's face like a common tramp, now hush before someone hears you."

"Who?" With a laugh Angel plopped onto the bed—a scant mattress covered with layers of tattered wool and cotton. "Wren? The King's concubine? Imagine! Every night she gets what you want. Determined stamina driving into her nethers."

Irritated, Isa stabbed at her with the dirty end of the broom. "Off my bed. You need to see to lunch preparations, anyhow."

The smooth vee between Angel's eyebrows knitted up with spite, but she slid off the bed and bounced out of the room as spritely as she came in.

Once the room was swept Isa took to the back stairs to make her way to the bathhouse, towel in hand for her Liege. It would take only minutes to warm the towel by the fire. She tried not to think about certain things: the dip in his hips, the way his biceps tensed when he raised his arms.

Before she stepped through the door she stopped at a hallway mirror and adjusted her clothing, situating her bodice, ensuring the lines of her apron and shift were in unison. Memories of cord and precious stones were long in the past. Her skin was fair and smooth then. All the many chores she tended to these days had given her a natural but more firm appearance. She found it rather unsightly, the stature of a workhorse, not a woman.

With an irritated sigh she crossed the last few feet and stepped through the door. Eyes on the floor, she couldn't see what she knew was there. Him, reclined and denuded, immersed under the gentle foam of the water's surface. Barely concealed.

She hanged the towel near the fire pit and retrieved the brush from an ornate table. He shifted in the water. She almost looked to see but stopped her head from turning. To keep her mind focused she began to count. First, her steps. Then, the strokes of the brush through his now damp hair. One . . . three . . . five . . . seven.

Yet no matter how loud she counted in her head she still sensed the smoothness of his wavy locks as they skimmed her fingers; his breathing, steady and deep; the pulse of his heartbeat when her fingers brushed against his skin.

And as she had done so many times in moments like this, she fancied the unthinkable act of taking his long strands and gathering them, wrapping them neatly around his neck, and pulling hard. Robbing his lungs of breath. Ending everything. Retribution.

But she didn't.

She couldn't.

Her heart was split down the center like the banner in her father's Grand Hall.

"Are you content, Isa?"

The question was strange from his mouth, with his stern voice having turned soft. Yet it wasn't the first time he had asked such a question.

"Of course, m'Lord." Her lie sounded false, like an abbot selling Saint John's Pinkies in quantity.

The brush slipped from her fingers when he stood unexpectedly, sending a spray of water over the rim of the tub. Isa stepped away to gather his towel, but he grabbed her arm, almost too tight, and held her still.

"The road west is a danger. I might not return."

It's not as if she hadn't seen him in his unclothed state before, but still. "I'm sure m'Lord will return whole and healthy, successful with your effort to seal the trade agreement."

She kept her eyes turned to a far corner of the room, yet out of the edge of her sight she took note of his form. Soft shadows played over his skin, water dripped from the curls of hair thrown over his shoulder.

"Why won't you look at me?" he asked, angling his face in front of hers.

Unpermitted, her brow furrowed, and she scowled at the fluttering drapes that concealed them from the outside world. Her eyes flashed to his and her stomached balled up tightly—gray eyes, a full mouth, narrow nose, bold cheeks. And in her mind she saw those same sharp eyes but glinting with the orange-red of raging fire, eyelids dirtied with Dwyer soil. A sharp pain stabbed through her temples, pulsing to her heart. She looked away before the sensation deepened.

He reached for her hand and clutched it tightly.

The hollow pull in her heart was from loneliness, desperation, angst . . . nothing more. She tried, desperately, to convince herself of such.

"You're trembling," he said, as if she were unware of her body's traitorous shaking. "Do you fear me?"

Again, her eyes flashed to his—gray—and a pain quickly followed. She couldn't lie this time. The truth felt safe. "Yes."

He lifted her hand to his chest, prying open her clenched fingers. His heart beat heavy under his warm, damp skin.

"Is there anything to fear?" he asked, the rumble of his voice surging through her fingers. "I've never caused you harm. You're of noble blood, same as I."

The terse set of her face deepened. She wanted to touch more, to move her fingers lower. "Not of Masen blood." She yanked her hand away, a slight act of insolence which crossed the line from what is permissible to what is not. But she couldn't help the sense that he was toying with her.

"Yes." He stepped from the bath, water dripping to the shale tiles. "Not that."

Quickly, she turned and retrieved his towel.

He kept his eyes on her as he wrapped the towel about himself. "Were you to be married?"

She had to bite the inside of her cheeks to hold her voice in check. "No."

Isa never married, the idea of binding her to another was not in her father's plan. The Regents of Dwyer saw her as a symbol, much akin to a Christ Bride as people of Masen would say. Her body, however, wasn't minding the specifics of morality. In the many months since being brought to Masen against her will she had given little heed to the beliefs and ways of her people. The distance, the constant state of lowliness her mind maintained, stripped away her focus and self-containment. Often, she felt as if she were a shell, hollow inside.

Remembering her life before he destroyed it staved any desire she felt.

With her mind on other things, she gathered another towel and set to drying his hair.

"That you know of, at least." His voice had a slight optimistic lilt to it.

"No." She shook her head, though he couldn't see. "My Great Father never intended for me to marry."

The King crossed the room to sit at the boudoir. Reflected in the mirror, she was unable to hide from his line of sight. His eyes met hers in the reflection. Here, though, the sharp pain did not come.

"Did he tell you as much?"

"It was discussed many times," she said as she rumpled his hair. "No marriage. I was to be what my people called the Fianta. A deity's bride. Something of a nun."

She didn't tell him about her commitment to being a religious sacrifice in her later years—that would have acted as a reminder of her barbaric heritage. Yet, even considering that, she at least felt a measure of pride for her place in her society. Being a Fianta came with great honor, a place in her people's hearts. Once she was taken from her homeland she lost all awareness of what had transpired after that fateful night. Her darkest fear was that she was the last drop of Dwyer blood that still lived and that the ways of the Dwyer people were gone.

"Then," he asked, "you've never been intimate with a man?"

"No." Was it meant to be an embarrassment that she had not?

"A shame."

"It came with high honor and great respect."

Silence fell. She continued to towel the water from his hair.

"Is that how you felt?" he asked. "Respected? Honored?"

She retrieved the brush and began to work it through his damp length. "Is that not how you feel? People worship you and honor you. Is that not satisfying?" When water collected at the dark tips she clenched the towel to it.

He said nothing for a while.

"What would you have done—" He shifted in his seat. "—with your life without being joined with a husband? Without children?"

 _Served as a stronghold for my people before battle._ That's what she would have done. Her image would have graced the battle flag as the Dwyer army tore this King's realm asunder. That's what she had entertained as of late—pure fantasy. To Dwyer, Masen was a mere distant country to the north. Not an enemy, not an ally. My how the tables turned in the course of one night.

She diverted the subject. "Is that how you want to spend the last hours before your journey? Discussing the wasted past life of a mere servant?"

His hand darted to hers, stilling the brush, and he gripped her tightly, but said nothing. A strange show of affection?

"While I'm gone—" He paused for a long moment and made a sound, as if to speak, but no words came.

The thought of being without him for so long while he traveled afar, and the way he held her hand in his, drove her to cross another line. She was no prostitute giving away herself for meager compensation, she didn't lower herself to such an extreme, but she dared to lean forward and rest her cheek against the back of his head. A small measure of fondness . . . minute . . . sinful, touching the King unpermitted.

His fingers curled around hers.

Eventually, he let go. As she continued with the brush, the silence wrapped around her like an oppressing blanket, making it hard to think, hard to breath. She wanted fresh air, to be away. She had already stepped out of line by turning away from him and for touching him unbidden, yet the only thing keeping her from walking out of the room was the confusing pull she felt toward him. That occasional bit of small contact—knuckles against his neck, fingertips along his collar—was better than none.

Isa paused her movements, realizing how odd it was that prostitutes were paid for what they did and yet she worked for free.

With relief, the King was soon dried and dressed. After he departed to see to other things the next hours passed quickly. Preparations for his departure were underway with significant fuss and speed. Stable boys tended to the horses. The traupie saw to the food supplies. Isa packed the remaining items of the King's wardrobe, carefully selecting all the necessary garments, wrapping them in muslin for clean transport.

In the King's chambers everything smelled of his rich, heavy lavender spice. It clung to her skin, her clothes, her hair. In the night hours when she was away from him it was a torturous treasure.

She glanced around the room to see if she were truly alone, feeling ridiculous, and pressed her face to the soft white of an undershirt.

He would be gone, and she would be alone, waiting like some fair maiden for her evil overlord to return to her, only to give her the cold shoulder again. What troubled her most was that her overlord didn't seem quite so evil when he was not carrying a lance or wielding a blade. The memories she had of his kind slitting throats and setting fire to tree and lumber were hard to reconcile. Though Isa had not seen him raise a knife directly, when he came upon her, the sounds of carnage and terror surrounding them, blood was evident on his blade.

She snapped out of her daze and angrily folded his shirt and stuffed it into the wardrobe case. Hurriedly, with much more disdain than care, she packed the rest of his items and clicked the lid closed.

When she hoisted the heavy wooden trunk from the table and lowered it to the floor a square of paper fell from underneath. Her cheeks heated, she glanced around to be sure no one had seen her toss the King's personal belongings about. Stooping, she picked up the paper: a letter, folded, sealed, and addressed simply to _Isa_.

Hastily, she flipped it up side down on the table. Why had he _written_ her? Such a strange thing for him to do.

"I intended to leave it for you to find while I was away, but perhaps you should read it now."

The King's voice sent a lance of fear through her; she hadn't heard him enter the room. Surprised, she held still, one hand on the rim of the wooden desk, her fingertip to the edge of the envelope.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

* * *

The moment hung in the air with an unpleasant thickness. Air rushed in and out of Isa's lungs so quickly her throat stung and her mouth dried. "I'm sorry, m'Lord."

Clumsily, she backed away, eyes downcast, and made for the small, almost hidden door on the other side of the room that would allow her to enter the neighboring chamber and escape.

"Stop." He used an authoritative tone, freezing her feet in place. The instant response to authority-through-words was a hard thing to overcome. But it was the slight hint of softness underneath that truly arrested her.

Eyes fixed on the far doorway, her mind struggled to find the courage to leave. Instinct versus insolence.

The King walked behind her, his feet treading across the tuft rug near his bed. His solid steps muffled.

"Through a strange perversion of fate, God has granted me the privilege to rule Masen. I cannot undo the past, but I am your new King."

As he came closer Isa's calves tensed, ready for action. Uncertainty for how far she could stretch the boundaries of her station—don't step away, don't contradict, don't turn away—kept her in place.

"And I've grown accustom to many things," he continued. "And one is to have what I want. If I want you to read a letter which I have written, you will do so."

Isa drew in a deep breath, willing her body to still and her mind to clear. "Then I'm certain your venture to Telnit will be a success. Be safe on your journey." She turned and gave a small curtsey.

"No, Isa. I won't permit you to go . . . not until you at least meet my eyes."

Clenching her jaw tight, she looked at him, glaring. He grinned. It was a lovely sight, him pleased with her. Yet there was a part of her heart and mind that wouldn't settle down and comply. She still saw him with blood on his hands, a sharp glare in his eye, a sword at his hand. That ghastly image smeared with newer ones: far more pleasant ones. Playing chess in the garden, sitting in his room to read, attending festive events. He had even inquired about her condition one day when she was feeling rather ill, "Isa, are you unwell?" So many little, pleasant things. The mix caused her confusion and a sharp pain in her temple each time she met his gaze. Her mind rejected this new version of the prince she had met that frightening day.

He stepped toward her, looking her over slowly, appreciatively, unaware of what played through her mind. From her mouth to her chin, and then her neck, and further, to the small line of cleavage that disappeared into the low cut swoop of her servant's dress.

Half way to her, he stopped, and turned to the desk.

"I gather you are literate."

She sighed. "Yes, of course."

"Then you'll have no trouble reading this letter aloud."

She stared at him with open-mouthed disbelief. She would have preferred to take leave and earn a lashing. "It's nearing noon."

"We'll depart when I'm ready."

"Your luggage is sufficiently packed. Lunch is being prepared."

"Come here." He pointed to the desk, the offensive envelope.

What had come over her? Earlier in the day, while scrubbing the spot at which he now stood, all she thought of was what she would do with such an intimate and personal moment. She wanted nothing more but for him to give her attention. Yet the moment had arrived and she wanted none of it.

Once their eyes locked, she couldn't look away even though the pain stabbed and stabbed. He was attractive in disturbing ways: a sharp glint in his eyes, wickedness hidden underneath. She thought of him supine in the bathing basin, and the way he had touched her hand with gentile tenderness.

He took two steps closer, now ten feet away. "It's okay." He breathed deep, eyes widening with urgency. "Come here."

And then it was too much. Her throat filled with cottony panic.

His expression softened, his lips parted a sliver. Two more steps. "Please come here, Isa."

 _Bloody hands, bright gray eyes, soft spoken words._ That's what she saw when she blinked.

He took another two steps, and then two more.

Her feet were frozen in place, she couldn't run though her body screamed at her to. She clenched her eyes shut, yet the last minutes at the burning Keep were all she could see. _Bloodshed everywhere._ The man who stood before her shared fault for all the horror. It wasn't his decision to invade, but still.

"Isa."

 _Blood ravaged howls all around like thunder in the air, saturating everything with a sickening tremor._

"Isa?"

 _Gripping the handle of a broadside, intent on slicing him through if he came closer, but it was too heavy to lift. It took little effort for him to rip it from feeble fingers._

Hands gripped her shoulders, her body shook. She clenched her eyes tighter.

"Al'dec! Quit!"

Warmth touched her cheeks, and then her lips. At that her eyes flew open, and those wretched gray irises were staring back at her intently, mere inches from her face. His hands cupped her cheeks, one thumb trailed over the shape of her mouth.

The sound of her quick, short breath filled the air. Her vision blurred, her head swam.

Something inside, something that had been building for a year's time, bent under the weight, and snapped. _The solitude, severed limbs, burning fire, frigid cold water:_ every memory she had shoved away bubbled to the surface, her restraint cooked off, leaving nothing but a seething rage.

Raw, flayed open, she bore her teeth and clawed at him. Gritting his with a hiss, he stepped back. She pressed forward, her hands striking out again and again. Not to hurt his flesh, but to tear his clothes. Those ghastly royal emblems, that cursed gemstone chain. It clattered to the floor with a satisfying heaviness.

She wanted to rip him apart, shredding pieces of his dignity and respect like his father had done to her. Her breath was fire. The King lifted his hands, pleading with tight, narrowed eyes for her to cease. She found the collar of his shirt and yanked and tore until it pulled free, ripping along the seams.

He stopped suddenly, his back firm against the wall. Her fingers dug deep inside his cuirass. The leather bindings cut into her skin as she pulled and twisted and tugged and ripped. Her work strong hands violated his Godly wares until he was bare from the waist up. She was strong enough now to lift that broadsword. Tattered remnants hanged free, caught in the crook of his arm, hung up on the sash across his chest.

He didn't look so Godly now, her nails having clawed into his bare skin.

Isa met his eyes, wanting to see the abject terror that she felt when he ripped the blade from her hands, but his face was filled with the wrong tension; the wrong glint was in those steely gray swirls.

"Fe—"

Letting out an angry cry she gripped his hair and yanked his mouth down to hers, thoughtless, satisfying other needs and urges. Everything let loose, spilling from her with no restraint. She didn't care if he reciprocated, or if he thrilled at her advances. If she was to die for violating the King she would go in a blaze of lurid, sinful glory. She would not die a virgin; she would not be his Fianta.

But he did return the effort. His hands found their way to her hair and he gripped her tightly. The hard evidence of his lust pressed into her belly.

Too angry to stop, too angry to think. Her anger, her dismal wrath, channeled through her fingers and hands, mouth and tongue.

She sought out the waist of his trousers and tore at the bindings along the sides, working them free, ripping through the eyelets. Their furious tongue lashing grew more frantic and wild. At that moment she wasn't sure what he was responding with—pure passion or equal anger. She dug her fingernails into his bare hip and thrilled at the satisfying nasal hiss he gave.

Reaching around her, he gripped her backside through the flowing fabric of her dress and lifted her up. Cradling her, he carried her to the desk nearby, his shaft pressing against her cleft, the heat soaking through the many layers in between.

But as he moved to set her on the surface, she broke away from his mouth. "No."

He stilled, half leaning over, her braced underneath, one hand against the wall, the other still clutching her backside. His eyes filled with confusion—almost fury.

Isa would not be taken.

She shoved her hands against his bare, bleeding chest and pushed him away. He went, resistant but still following her lead.

Breathing hard, she stepped away and made to undo her own lacings. He reached out to assist, but she curled her lip and protested with a swat of her hand. That was not how this would go. They were not passionate lovers, she was a woman nearly possessed.

Unceremoniously, Isa untied her shift and let it drop to the floor. She took no time to consider that she'd never been naked with a man before, she simply pushed him back onto the desk. He moved willingly, his shaft thick and proud. Expectant.

Gripping his arm, she climbed over him. Violent rage still painted her vision red, numbing her mind. She straddled his thighs and, briefly, his hardness brushed against her sex, slick and smooth. The sensation, startling, sent a pleasured jolt through her. She couldn't help but groan with surprised delight.

The King reached between them, gripping his self in a tense fist. He tried to brush his shaft against her again but she moved aside. Narrowing her eyes, she showed him he didn't guide any of this, she did.

Breath coming so quick her head swam, she moved until the tip of his shaft pressed to the divide of her sex. With a pained groan behind gritted teeth, she lowered herself, taking him in. The conflicting mix of pleasure and pain was boggling. The sensation dulled her anger if only a little. She thought to stop, to pull away, but this had gone too far. The only thing waiting for her was an executioner's axe. Isa, infused with a new boldness, refused to stop what she had started.

Once she'd taken him in fully she held still, her arms and legs shaking violently, her breath coming in short, choppy gasps. The muscles of his chest flexed and drew taut. He held himself still underneath her tensed body, his hands touching her sides gingerly. She met his gaze and held it until the sensation eased. He wasn't fueled by anger. He wasn't seething as she was. He was taking full pleasure in this, wasn't he? Her body relaxed a small measure and she lifted herself off slowly, clenching her teeth against the sting, and then lowered herself down again.

She pressed her hands to his chest, slick and hot. His stomach muscles rippled and he bit his cheeks, baring his front teeth. The way his body tensed with each slow draw up and journey down was the most enticing thing. Only after a few times of making the effort did her mind find a drop of clarity. It dawned on her that this was the first time laying with someone and none of it followed any sort of normal manner. They were on a desk and she had rid herself of her virginity with the King after clawing him to the nude.

She stilled, now stunned by the perverse act.

Breathing hard, his hands rested lightly on her hips. She pushed herself up, intent on getting away and letting him be. Tightly, he gripped her hips and shook his head.

Though it was as simple as letting him make the next move the giving in and giving over didn't come so easily.

Slowly, one hand finding purchase on the desk behind him, the other hand traveling over her breast, to her neck, he pulled her down to him, his mouth meeting hers.

Isa's hesitation faded and, caught up in the kiss, more passionate and fueled with less anger, she moved her hips again. The sensation inside was different now. She gave into her body, enjoying the thrill, the rush of it all. Now that she was no longer angling to see his face tighten and hear that strained groan form in his throat, she lost herself in the moment.

The closeness; his hands on her back and in her hair; her breasts pressed to his chest; knowing she'd shed the last thing that meant anything to everyone; the fact that she'd taken control of her life and body for the first time—all of this caused her pleasure to swell in an all consuming wave. She tensed and shuddered against him, her body's movements beyond her means. The sounds that escaped her equally uncontrolled.

When the waves eased and her body settled he gripped her tightly. She clung to him as he lifted her up and spun until she was perched on the surface. Eye to eye, he clenched himself in his fist and frantically raced—muscles tense, breath quick, eyes wide but distant—to spill his seed on the low of her belly. It was as if she was not the only one fighting for control. For some strange, senseless reason, being striped with his heat became the most thrilling moment of the entire experience.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

* * *

Green hills rolled to the edge of pale gray cliffs, and then it was a drop of more than two hundred feet to the ocean below. In the distance, a ribbon of narrow islands, mostly sand and rock, marked the Western most cusp of Masen. From here, in the seaside province of Nial, the Lords of Eastern Telnit and Western Masen gathered to discuss, more so debate, the exchange of grain for lumber. Summer drought in Telnit cut their grain supply, the people feared famine.

"My culture is not the same as yours, my good friend," The Count of A'tillo said as he flicked his hand in the air to summon another serving of amber liquor.

Edward had no energy for this discussion. He had come here to offer assistance to a starving people, not to wager and barter another more serious agreement.

A strong breeze blew from the ocean, the waves frothing with white caps far below. Days away, Masen was gripped with winter chill. Edward swirled the tart liquor in his glass, turning down a second fill.

"Five loads of grain, then," Edward said, pouring Lordly finality into his words.

The Count's eyes opened with surprise. "Five for the price of four?"

Edward nodded, hoping that increasing the quantity without raising the cost would suffice. On the line wasn't millet, tar-pitch, and Terebinth lumber trades, but sole rights to mercantilism through the Western Rime. If the Count agreed then Edward would have succeeded in effectively gaining favor with Telnit for future trade. This would help gain a hand over Denali, Masen's northern neighbor and established enemy.

A'tillo leaned forward. "Will you not tell me why it is you wish to end your . . . arrangement . . . with Rose?"

Edward twisted about on his wooden bench, turning his attention to a nearby cluster of trees which stood between them and the Garden-dwellings where guests were housed. Rose was there waiting for him. Edward wasn't a fool; he knew that Rose being given for a time was in hopes of turning a concubine agreement between King and Count into one of stronger significance. But that path had taken a turn.

While Rose was lovely and quite the pleasure to be with—a dark haired and pale skin beauty from the far reach of the Telnit Empire—she did not thrill him heart and soul. Her physical appeal only propelled him so far.

"It's purely political," Edward hedged. "Depending on how things go with Denali come soon, I might find myself a new Queen."

"And rebuild bridges after you've burned them?"

Edward smiled. "Yes, precisely. Building bridges."

ooo

After night had fallen and dinner was consumed, Edward adjourned to his room. Orange-yellow stone and delicate lattice-work over the windows gave an otherworldly feel, the geographical intrigues of the West evident in the design and decor.

In the quiet, with a fire snapping nearby, he laid back on the bed, his mind wandering far from his current place, to the young girl with a fire of her own burning in the far reach of her eyes.

As he thought of Isa—assertive, finding her inner strength, taking the lead—he imagined she was here with him. Her voice, her body against his. His hand soothed the ache she caused. Often, he thought of her when with Rose, and when alone. Since that first moment he saw her in Dwyer—the light of a raging red fire nearby, smoke and heat, and her eyes harsh and filled with pure and deep rage; beautiful in a dark, haunting way—he was lost to her.

He drifted with the recent memory, now knowing things he had fixated on and fantasized about for months. He knew the feel of her skin, the enticing contrast of dark on light. The angry passion that poured from her, coming through in her grasp and touch. The way his body so readily responded to her anger as she struck him, pain turning to pleasure.

Soon, he felt soft fingers on his. Attentive to his needs, Rose pushed aside Edward's stroking hand and cupped him gently. He couldn't bring himself to look at her, opening his eyes would destroy the illusion. Keeping them clenched tightly, keeping Isa fixed in his mind, he reached out for Rose, pretending she was someone else.

In this moment usually he would take charge, Rose giving herself over, following his lead as his hands set the pace. But when he began to fall into the routine, his mind rejected it. Snatching back his hands as if her silk smooth hair was a lick of flame, he groaned with frustration.

Rose stopped. Eyes closed, Edward could feel her sit back, looking at him.

"Rose?" he began, but that assertiveness he was accustomed to presenting was watered down. He had almond eyed, sharp Isa on his mind.

"Yes, my King?"

"I care for you. Know that."

"Yes." She stroked her fingers over the rise of his chest. "I care for you too."

"Do you understand why I'm not bringing you back to the Palace?"

Rose raised her head, chin quivering, and nodded yes. With a smile begging forgiveness, Edward opened his arms to invite her into his embrace. She crawled alongside him and snuggled to his chest. Rose was enjoyable and well mannered, which made Edward feel even more the cad for cutting her off.

"You're a lovely woman and I'm certain your father will find you a proper man to marry." He kissed her forehead to soften the blow.

"When will you go?"

"Tomorrow. After noon."

As they lay together for the last time, he thought of Isa and whether she had read his letter, and what her answer would be. He considered Rose's future and what it would hold.

But on the morrow, after the noon meal when he was meant to depart for the Masen Palace, news arrived: Denali had refused the King's offer. Returning home, to potentially a new life with Isa at his side, would have to wait. The King and his entourage turned north, bracing for potential conflict.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

* * *

Flurries of snow streaked past the grand window at the end of the North Hall. The coldness of the floor soaked through the soles of Isa's shoes and chilled her feet. She clutched her shawl tightly around her arms, turning her knuckles white.

Everything had changed between her and the King. What started as concern turned to deep unease. In the days since the King departed, every sound, every footstep, made her wary. Her skin prickled strangely and her stomach felt forever twisted in a painful knot. The routine she had grown so accustomed to was off, diminished, and she had questions for which she wanted answers, but there was no one to turn to. The frigid air punching through a small crack in one window pane mirrored how she felt inside.

"Do you see anything?" Anne, fresh to Masen Palace from the far Eastern region of the country, peeked her head through a nearby doorway.

For a moment Isa thought she was asking about the King and his return at some future point, but then realized she was only asking about the weather.

"Flakes." Isa stooped and gathered the bucket of soapy water. Alone, she traveled the length of the North Hall. The King's Hall. Every other step, the handle of the bucket clinked . . . clinked . . . clinked.

Masen Castle, much to her amusement, was shaped like an arrow that pointed south to her homeland. From time to time, more frequently in the beginning of her life here, she imagined she was walking south, going home, each time she ventured down the stairs. It helped her keep her bearings. Often she entertained the idea that she would reach the bottom and her father would be there, having been granted new life by Abdon to end her suffering. At other times she fancied the whole of the Teh Council had garnered forces and fought to free her.

But time dragged on and no one had come to pluck her from her new Keeper. Ultimately, she had to abandon the fantasies. They were too painful. And slowly, she began to forget the things that she imagined unforgettable: the sound of her father's voice, the way her brother's looked like twins when they smiled.

When she reached the far end of the North Hall where it opened like a mouth to the grand entry, she pulled aside a set of wall hung drapes to reveal one of the many servant passageways. A gust of cold wind blew through, rustling her skirt. She walked into the darkness, her eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light that poured in through slits along the floor. Voices filled the air, echoing off the walls.

A winding stairwell spiraled down to the throne room. Its mass stretched underneath the North Hall in a strange balance of bold on the bottom and delicate on top. The ceiling met in a peak with a series of grand archways that permitted the room to be singular and vast. Where Isa came from such structures were mere rumor. Though her time here was less than favorable, she secretly admired the prowess of the artisans who had toiled to bring such a wonder to life.

Scrubbing the windows wasn't usually an unpleasant task. The snowy-white light filtered through the windows, lighted by the rising sun. It made her feel safe, comfortable, bringing back pleasant memories of her childhood—running barefoot through her father's throne room, golden sunlight having lit the glossy floor.

Raised voices from the far end of the room caught her attention. She thought—no, she swore—there was something familiar about one voice but she couldn't be sure. She stepped to the next window, scrubbing quickly, and then the next in an effort to get closer. Three windows closer, all of forty feet, and she could make out two distinct male voices. The words between the two fat with debate.

After drawing closer by a few more windows she was able to make out three people clustered together behind an array of hanging banners and potted greenery. An older man stood, gripping a cane, dressed in brown, his back to her. Isa recognized the man he was speaking with, Stuart D'Compte, whom served as a surrogate liege while the King was away. Isa didn't care for him much.

She cared very little for all in the Royal House at Masen, naturally. Apart the abject loathing they each held for her, there was a dry haughtiness to the manner in which the members and family of the court conducted themselves. It was as if the grand scale of the castle with its delicate lines and feminine curves sucked the life from their veins. But for D'Compte, there was a purpose behind the way he observed and watched without saying much. For him to have harsh words for another was highly unusual. Yet somehow, even he embodied the values of the King quite well.

Another window closer and she caught sight of the third party, a young woman. Thin, frail, standing near the older man as if she were leaning on him for support.

The sense of familiarity grew stronger. Isa knew many people in her lifetime, and these two could be anyone. Yet somehow she felt as if they were not simply a random unknown. The trio shifted, moving to the far side of the room and out of Isa's line of sight.

She tossed the rag into the bucket and crept across the room. This inkling of familiarity had been the strongest sensation experienced since the other day with the King in his bedchamber.

When the thought of being with the King crossed her mind she stopped moving, suddenly embarrassed over her actions. The conversation at hand was none of her concern and neither was the identity of the two strangers. Hastily, she returned to the wall of windows.

Once the King crept into her thoughts she couldn't shake him off easily. She had fooled herself into imagining that her feelings would go away if he responded only once. Instead, her feelings had grown stronger. His touch on her was no longer a mystery. His taste, the feel of his lips, the racing of his heartbeat—there were no more secrets. Every moment of it she enjoyed. But now he was with Rose.

Angry, she scooted the bucket with her foot and smacked a wet cloth to the window sill.

"Chon bi luc!"

Isa's head snapped in the direction of the man's voice. "Apologies, Stuart D'Compte."

He pointed to the floor, the bucket of water now spilled, puddling around her feet. She squatted and began to sop the water with the cloth, ignoring D'Compte as he prattled insults at her expense. At the edge of her vision she could see that his leather clad feet were joined by two more.

One small tattoo on the inside of each thin ankle right overtop the curled rim of a shoe. Three vertical lines, the center line, longer, divided in two. The Dwyer Breath. The tattoo given to those who had been granted a place on the Teh Council, an expression of their pledge to Gods and country until their dying breath.

A mix of emotion came over her: elation, fear, anger, shock, surprise. She was not the last of her people. Was this the moment she had waited for?

"Isa. This is Essica, new to us from Kettleton. Pearl's expecting her."

Struggling to remember how she was meant to behave while near members of the Royal House, Isa stared intently at the young girl. She was likely the age of fourteen or thereabout.

So many questions came to mind, but this was not the place. Essica looked to Isa, expressionless, yet sharing such similar features. The crisp almond skin, wide expressive eyes, though Essica's were brown, not gray like Isa's.

Mindful of her posture and facial expression, Isa wondered if the Stuart was aware that these two were Dwyer. Was it not obvious?

"Yes, Stuart D'Compte."

As she bowed slightly she looked to the Dwyer elder; a broad scar ran the length of one cheek; bushy eyebrows and a low hanging brow nearly concealed his eyes; grayed hair cut short; his skin drawn and wrinkled with age. His features were quite striking, not wholly common in her former region. But he was also unfamiliar. Recognition didn't seem to touch his wizened eyes, either.

The young woman, Essica, stooped to aid Isa in mopping up the remainder of the water.

ooo

Isa, with Essica at her side, traveled the dark and narrow passageways. Isa's mind spun through thoughts so quickly she couldn't focus on a single one. Did Essica recognize her? Why had she come to Masen? Were there others? Should anything be said or should nothing be said?

Intent on silencing the buzz in her head, Isa began with an innocuous question, "Have you worked in a palace this size before?"

"No, Miss."

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"The man who was with you, is he your father?"

"Uncle."

Shoulders hunched against the sharp wind as they crossed from one building to the next. The air smelled of winter chill; ice and cold taking on a fresh, natural scent. Outside was still, everyone having ventured indoors to hide from the winter storm that grew on the mountain top. The pathway was smothered in snow through which they trudged, stepping high. The bucket banged against Isa's thigh with every step. Horses brayed nearby.

A brief, fleeting thought of the King crossed through her mind again. Was he warm? Was he safe?

Once inside they stamped their feet to knock off the snow.

"This is the servant's building. Most of us have rooms here. Pearl is usually tending to the wash this time of day." Isa glanced down at Essica's feet, the exposed ankles with the telling tattoo. "Isn't it a bit cold for such foot ware? Let me get you something more appropriate before your toes turn black."

Upstairs, Isa retrieved an older pair of padded boots, laced through with mismatched cording. "These will do you for a while."

Essica took them gingerly. As if she were unsure about what to do, she sat on the edge of the bed. Isa was puzzled over which roll to take. In Dwyer she would have had carobs and a blessing to give. In Masen she lived the life of a servant, not a single carob seed to her name.

Isa would have to take time to think things over, sort out what she needed to know. It was likely that Essica being here meant nothing.

ooo

By the end of the day the servant's quarters had filled with the sounds of weary feet, the air thickened with the smell of work. Isa sat in the main entry, near the crackling fire, warming her hands. Essica had yet to return from her time with Pearl.

While she waited, Isa's thoughts turned to the written letter tucked away underneath the thin mat of her bed, unopened. Countless times she had pulled it free and turned it over, curious about what was written inside, but not strong enough yet to read it. She could imagine no good possibilities, only the foul ones.

 _Isa, I've decided to send you to Kettleton. Pack up . . . ._

 _Isa, I am no longer in need of your services and since I am a heartless coward I cannot tell you to your face . . . ._

How much things had changed for her over all this time. Truly vexing. When she was younger her father couldn't seem to pin her down. She was too boisterous. Back then she never would have let a mystery letter lay unopened. Whatever happened to that endlessly curious girl who spent more time in trouble with the lock slung over her bedroom door than her brothers did?

It pained her to remember them, so alive one day and slaughtered the next. What did they think of her now? Did they look down from the highest peaks of Langua, land of the afterlife, and pity her? Mock her? Or did they have it in them to understand her?

She had long since abandoned the ways of her people, something she had given little thought to in the time that had passed. But now, with one of her own—one who had taken the Oath of the Dwyer Breath—near to her, it made her look back and reconsider all she had done.

Or rather, all that she had not done.

She had not saved her country from war. She had not inspired thousands to take up arms and act with brave minds and stout hearts. Instead, she was taken and forced to comply with another King's demands. Before Edward came his father, King Brisbane. He was the one who had locked her in irons, held her in the Keep below the castle, until no raging revenge boiled inside her. The fire inside was doused by hunger for food and thirst for water. It hadn't stirred again until the other day with the King at her fingertips.

King Brisbane and King Edward were in strong contrast to each other. Brisbane was coarse, harsh. His son was . . . not. King Edward was capable of equal brashness, but he wielded it decisively.

Congress with the King, Essica returning. All of this brought back to life the embers that had died in Isa's heart.

Carefully, she plucked a brick from the fireplace and wrapped it in muslin. This small creature comfort would keep her warm enough to fall asleep. In her room, she pulled the letter from its hiding place and curled up underneath the blankets, tucking the brick near her feet. The comforting warmth radiated through her toes, up her legs.

Her heart beat unsteadily, nervous as to what was written inside. Perhaps it was her freedom? Would that be so bad? Compensation and permission to return to her homeland? She entertained the hope only briefly. The nervousness was welcomed, a remnant of her discarded life beating in her chest.

Wax bits crumbled from the royal seal. Paper crinkled as she drew the letter from the velum sleeve. His handwriting elegant but edgy, much like the way he carried himself.

 _Isa, My fire_

 _I'm drawn to you inexplicably._

 _As King I have the power to demand many things, to merely take. I confess I have been tempted to do so with you time and again. Instead, I offer you weekly recompense if you would accept the honor of being my Courtesan. The title comes with many freedoms. At the time of my return I shall expect your answer._

 _Yours, if you'll have me,_

 _Edward Masen_

Be his courtesan? He asked in a letter? The offer didn't even settle into her mind, her answer was an instantaneous no. Quickly, she shoved the letter back where it came from and lay back against her scant pillow. Her curiosity having stirred little beyond annoyance. She had already given him what he was wanting!

Forcing her mind to let go and not whip her into a frothy rage, she clenched her eyes closed.

ooo

Sleep didn't come in a solid stretch; it teased her off and on all night. The brick at her feet grew cold and the quarter was never fully silent. All night, she watched through half-closed lids as the snow and ice built up in the corners of the window lattice. Thick, rounded tufts of white frozen cotton. A drop of condensation ran down the inside of the pane.

When she heard Essica's young voice she jumped up from the bed. Pearl, a formidable figure of a woman, walked with the girl not too far behind her, explaining the rules that she was to follow. Essica's room was at the far end of the hall, across from Angel's. The location of which made it clear she would be an assistant in the kitchen. Pearl's strict house code grouped servants of like stations together to keep things orderly.

"Pearl, Essica." Isa dipped her head with respect.

Essica, with her arms full of bedding, stood silent.

"Where's Angel?" Pearl asked, her hands sunk deep into her apron pockets.

"I'm unsure. I haven't seen her in days."

Pearl grunted and rocked on her feet. "In the morning," she said to Essica, "Isa, here, will take you to the kitchen. She's the King's personal servant." Turning to Isa she added, "Get her situated. The day starts soon."

Anne and Millie, with their lighting staffs in one hand and flasks of burning oil in the other, walked by. That meant it was near five in the morning.

"Where are you from?" Isa asked Essica as they walked together. "I know Stuart D'Compte said Kettleton, but that's merely a province of Masen."

"Brenishdire."

"Yes, I know of it. West of the Divide."

Dwyer was nearly split in two by a canyon, two rivers ran through it. Brenishdire was one of the numerous cities in the mountains to the west. Isa had traveled there only a few times when she was a child. The last journey was right before she was honored with her status as Fianta.

"This is your room," Isa said as they reached the last one. "It's been empty ever since I came here."

Here they were, alone. Others slept in their rooms. Though servants, many were faithful to the King. Few were taken and claimed as Isa was.

Mindful of their surroundings, Isa shut the door before finally asking what had been on her mind all night. "Do you know me?" she whispered.

"Many people know your story. On the Solstice, you were with the King."

The Solstice was not something honored in Masen, but it happened to fall in alignment with King Edward's coronation soon after his father's passing. He spent weeks touring the nation, meeting his new subjects, Isa in tow. One of the few times Isa had journeyed away from the palace walls and one of the first things she had done while acting as his personal servant.

"Have you been away from Dwyer for long? I was led to believe all were lost."

They spread out blankets together.

"No, not lost. Only scattered for a while."

"When I saw—" Isa stopped short, motioning to the tattoo on Essica's ankle. "—I had hoped to recognize you, but I do not. Is Essica your given name?"

"Damuéssica Chalaih."

Isa reached across the bed, embracing her awkwardly. "A Chalaih. I remember your Gibant-mother, Melaire. She was my favorite of all the Gibants. All the kids she cared for loved her." Isa let go of her, eyes burning from bittersweet memories.

"Perhaps we knew each other in childhood, then?"

Isa smiled through her tears. "Perhaps." She wiped at her cheeks. "Tell me, why is it that you're here?"

Essica studied Isa for a moment, her lips drawn tight as she thought. "To do what needs to be done," she said, her head dipping forward as if saying the words took considerable effort.

Nodding, Isa walked to the door. "I'm glad you're here. I began to feel I was the only one." The door creaked loudly as she opened it. "Sleep while you can," she added, no longer whispering. "The first few days are the most tiring."

Back in her chilled room, Isa curled up in her now icy bed. Sleep finally came. She dreamt of shattered glass and frosty rivers that ran red, falcons flying overhead.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

* * *

"Wake, you cow."

At first, Isa didn't know who it was shaking her, yelling at her. She struggled to focus her eyes on the face in the dark. Angel. Her manic hair catching the light gave her away even without the verbal assault.

"What do you want?"

"I need your help. Up." Angel's tone was unusually tense, her voice gritty, her fingers icy cold.

Isa shuffled out of bed, sleepily shoving her feet into her shoes. "What do you need?"

"Hurry. Quit talking, you'll wake the others." She tossed a cloak onto the bed which meant they'd be going outside for a while.

Isa slipped it on and followed her down and out the building. It was painfully cold out, the snow had fallen blanket thick, causing their feet to sink into the crunchy mess. The courtyard, where the snow had been shoveled away, was caked with a slurry of frozen mud which had hardened into swirls and wheel ruts. They crossed the entire distance, making it to the smoke house on the farthest end where perishable goods were stored during the winter. Instead of going inside the small building which forever smelled of burnt ash, they wormed between barrels that were stacked along the outside wall.

There were only a few feet between the back of the smokehouse and the wall of the castle grounds. Beyond that, the slightest of cliff ledges and then a near vertical drop into the forest below. Between the two gray, rugged walls lay a young man on a pile of packed snow, his head bandaged, red soaking through the crude wrapping.

"What happened! Who is this?"

"Eric. A friend."

Isa stepped carefully over him. "There was a cart in front. We'll put him in that."

Kneeling, Isa worked her hands underneath his shoulders. Angel wrapped her arms around his calves. He was no heavier than a grown child, but the tight space and snow underfoot made it difficult to maneuver him out. His head lolled against Isa's chest and he groaned faintly as they shifted and stumbled on their way through.

Breathing hard, they managed to hoist him into the cart. His legs hung over the back end, nearly sweeping the ground.

"What happened?" Isa asked as she tugged on his clothes to situate his arms.

"He fell . . . from the top of a house."

The two of them braced their arms around the posts of the cart where a horse would be yoked and began to pull.

"What were you two doing on top of a house?"

Angel shrugged. "Treasure hunting."

"Being a thief is what you mean? Did anyone see you? Am I now an accomplice for your crime?"

"There are so many empty houses with the King being away, engaging our neighbors to the north and all."

Slipping on a frozen divot of mud, Isa caught herself by the handles. The cart bucked, Eric gasped. "West, you mean," she clarified. "To Telnit. If you perhaps stayed here instead of running off you would know these things."

"Well he did at first," Angel corrected. "He did go west, but then Lord Appleton received word that the King then traveled north, to Denali. Something about a marriage arrangement."

"Marriage?" Isa halted her steps. The boy's body in the cart shifted and wobbled. He moaned softly. "Whose marriage?"

Surprise settled into Angel's eyes. "Didn't you know? The rumor is that he's been considering it for months."

"We don't . . . ." Isa scowled as she gripped the bar tightly and tugged on the cart. "I'm his servant. We don't talk."

"Evidently."

In silence they pulled the cart over the cusp of the mountaintop. Harsh wind cut through Isa's clothing and chilled the sweat as it beaded on her skin.

True, she was his servant. That did not push aside the fact that he wanted her to be his courtesan—why give it such a fancy name?—his whore. The idea made her teeth grind. It all made sense, now. Being of noble Dwyer blood wasn't good enough for anything other than physical pleasures. Not even to be a mistress? To think that mere weeks ago she was on her hands and knees, begging for his attention.

They came to the north end of the servant's quarters. The backroom was often used for medical concerns such as stitching wounds. Everything at that point was a blurred haze of events. Knocking on the door, waking Sue, making a deal with her so she would care for the boy as he if were one of their own. Angel and Isa both agreed to take on extra chores and see to the boy's care in lieu of payment for services.

ooo

With the King's return at some point in the unknown future, with all manner of preparations to see to in the meantime and Eric now at the quarter slowly recovering, the hours passed quickly.

Between all these many things some thoughts were put aside. The King's brash request, for one thing, had been all but forgotten. In fleeting moments, right before falling to sleep, Isa would think of it, but nothing more than a radiant 'no' came to mind. From lost in a dark nothing to not having time to sleep, things had changed.

Isa took the night shift to watch over Eric as sleep for her had become harder to manage. In the morning hours, while others ambled off to their routine chores, she saw to him.

"Hi," he said, his voice thick as if it were difficult to form the words. His eyes were full of recognition, now. Though of few words, it was clear he appreciate Isa's attentions.

"Hello, Eric." Isa carried a bundle of fabric in her arms. "How are you today? Have you been up long?"

Laying on his side, one shoulder rose slightly as if he were shrugging.

"Still sore?"

He slurred a yes.

"You have pink in your cheeks. That's a good sign." She set the bundle at the foot of the bed. "I'm going to do something I probably shouldn't do. But, I think it will help you out."

His smooth white forehead crumpled with a frown.

"The King is away for a while." She looked around, ensuring they were alone. "Sue, Pearl and the others have gone to the soapery for a new fix of lye. Everyone else is busy. So it's you and me."

His eyes, slightly unfocused, traveled over her features, but he said nothing.

"Come on. I think you can walk. You'll feel much better after a proper bath and a change of clothing. The bathhouse isn't too far."

She anchored the bundle over her shoulder and helped him up from the bed. He winced and groaned in discomfort as he moved. Isa gave quiet words of encouragement as he gained his footing. He leaned heavily against her, nearly throwing off her balance, but she managed to guide him to the doorway. Right outside was the cart in which Eric slumped, sighing with relief.

Soon, Eric was immersed in fresh warm water, the same tub that the King bathed himself in.

"Look here." She held the sliver of soap in the air. "See how the light filters through, like a cloudy day?"

Eric nodded, his eyes half closed.

"I love this particular recipe for soap. It creates a hard, smooth bar that lasts longer, but its clarity is quite beautiful."

She took a cloth and ran it over the bar, soaping up the fabric square. "Here, you wash yourself. I'll step out for a while. When you get out I'm sure you'll feel so much better."

On her way out, Isa collected up Eric's clothing to carry to the laundry. A heavy disk, like a large coin on a cord, tumbled free. Quickly, she picked it up and paused as she looked over the emblem carved on one side. A circle inside of a circle. With a silent laugh she wondered if it was stolen by Angel herself.

After leaving the laundry house, Isa returned to the servant's quarters to gather a towel and a new stash of linens for Eric's head. When she shut the cabinet door she came face to face with Angel. Her eyes wide, mouth gaping.

"Where is he?"

"Calm down." Isa held the stack out for her. "He's fine. He's having a bath."

"I came from the soapery. No one was bathing there."

"Not there where we bathe." Isa lifted her eyebrows with suggestion.

"Oh dear god, do you want him dead?"

"I want him clean. He stinks like a wet boar. I know he was injured but, seriously Angel, when was the last time he bathed? Where does he live exactly? In a barn?"

Angel followed behind Isa, out and across the courtyard. "Don't frighten me like that. You should have told me."

"You were with Pearl. I didn't mean to cause alarm."

When they arrived at the bathhouse Isa was surprised to find Eric sitting upright, the water slowly draining through the pipe. The warmth of the bath had certainly brought heat back to his cheeks.

He looked up and smiled wide at Angel. She went to him and wrapped her arms around his wet shoulders. He laughed with a murky chuckle.

"Hello, love," he said as he reached up to pat her hair.

Hastily, sniffling, Angel fetched a towel. "You're doing well. I thought for sure you were dead the other day."

Isa stood, watching the two engage each other, feeling touched by the moment. But when Angel helped Eric to stand with gentle care, Isa's mood soured. Not toward the two, but with herself and her situation. It was a reminder of what she did not have, would not have. Not even now that she was no longer a Fianta, destined for greatness and death.

Not even so much as love would be necessary, but someone to consider valuable in her life. Someone to care for.

What would her own future look like? Would she have to take to running away at strange interims in order to find some measure of peace or happiness? A companion?

Isa left the two in the King's bathhouse, telling them to hurry along before they were discovered, and made for the kitchen where Essica was stowed, working madly.

During the winter the kitchen was everyone's favorite place to be. It was always warm, even during the coldest of winter nights.

Essica had taken to the habit of setting aside a small something to share with Isa. It was like a secret between the two.

"I've made something you'll enjoy." Essica grinned, her eyes wide and lit up with excitement. "They won't let me cook for the Royal House yet but I have cooked quite a bit for staff."

Isa pulled two chairs from the pegs on the far side of the wash room. "Oh?"

"Yes, yes. Hold on. Let me get it." She walked out of the room, talking as she went. "I thought you'd like it, having come from the plains right where the river flows into the delta." Her voice echoed through the room next door. "They brought in some snapper, you know, the red fish here. Only the King had decided to be gone longer and it was going to go bad so I made a few dishes . . . ."

She entered the room carrying a large gilded tray reserved for the Royal House. Food enough for a feast was arranged neatly: two large fillets of brilliant red snapper smothered with a creamy white sauce. Onions and potatoes on the side. Wisps of steam filled the air, touching to Essica's cheeks.

"That is amazing." Quickly, Isa retrieved a set of dinner ware. "Let me get Angel, at least. How about Sue?"

Essica shook her head, grinning. "Only us. Let's talk. The forlorn Dwyers."

Isa looked around before saying yes.

They found a corner, partially concealed by a girth of storage barrels. Tucked away and hidden with pleasant company, it was rather peaceful and relaxing. In a way Isa felt as if she were back in Dwyer. If she stepped out from this hidden spot would she see the ducova with flasks of liquor slung over his back as he filled the cellar? She wanted to actually look and see, but stayed put, clinging to the fantasy for a while.

"Have two weeks really taught you so much about food?" Isa's eyes slid closed as she took a bite of fish.

"My mother, she loved to eat." Essica poured more wine for the two of them. With a cellar full, surely one hefted bottle wouldn't be missed.

"Tell me, Isa. How exactly did you come to even be here? I know you were taken. But the rumors were that you were taken and actually—" She drew her finger across her neck, letting her tongue fall from her mouth.

"I don't know. Sometimes I think they let me live purely to torture me."

Essica's eyes widened. She reached out for Isa, taking her hand. "They didn't, did they?"

"Not really. They made me very uncomfortable . . . and lonely . . . ." Staring at Essica for a moment, she willed herself not to recall the memories.

"Well. The way I see it?" Essica reached out and took Isa's hand in hers. "Abdon made it possible for me to come here. Now you have a friend."

"I think I've gone too far away from home, Essica. I don't believe his eyes can see this far to the north."

The part of her that had forsaken her vows with the body of the King hoped that all her thoughts and feelings as of late had gone unseen, unheard, and unnoticed. But the other half felt otherwise, that Abdon had seen and heard all. Would he reject her in the end?

Isa shifted the conversation none too slyly. "I don't think I've been this full since the last Dua Crescent Festival I attended in Nesreet. Richta, the Teh Council member from the far Eastern reach, ended up inebriated, pleasuring himself in front of the Chief."

They both erupted with laughter. And so went the day—hidden away, shirking duties, eating too much good food, and sharing stories of the past.

The fun ended when the outside door to the kitchen flew open, banging loudly.

Heavy footsteps echoed. "Isa!"

"Don bi luc!" Essica hissed. "It's Pearl!"

Isa hastily drank down the last of the wine, drawing out a laugh from Essica. She then began to fuss with the dirtied dishes that lay about.

"Go, go. I've got this." Essica shoed her away, her voice still bubbly with amusement.

ooo

Over the next few days Angel and Isa nursed Eric back to good health. His ghastly head wound had almost fully healed. A salve which Essica prepared in the kitchen had done wonders to keep it clean. The greatest struggle was that he was undernourished. This seemed to bother Isa much more than it bothered Angel.

"You're too thin yourself, Angel. That is why you don't see how unhealthy he is. Does he not have adequate food where he lives?"

The look Angel gave in response said it all. No, he didn't. In a way she found it difficult to understand, this reality twisted Isa's heart. Angel was probably all Eric had. That's why she stole so much and was gone often.

"I'm so sorry, Angel-sweet. You've been caring for him, haven't you?"

Angel bit her lower lip and nodded.

"I'll help you care for him, eh? How about that? Even when he gets better I won't let him fall back into ill health if I can help it."

Angel's shoulders fell back as she breathed with a contented laugh. "Thank you! I knew you'd come through for me. You always have."

Isa peered out the door, noting that the castle gate hadn't risen yet.

"You need to go. Pearl's been hot after you for slacking on your duties."

Isa still had enough time to see to Eric before the King's return.

ooo

"Eric?" Isa carried a small pot of warm broth into the infirmary where he had stayed for most of his recovery. A draft blew through the room, causing him to clutch his blanket tightly.

Essica, along with the whole of the kitchen staff, had been busy for days preparing for the King's return. Cattle, swine, and other animals were slaughtered in large number. Essica had collected up enough marrow filled bones to boil into a soup. Blended with other ingredients the odor was pungent, but the broth hardy.

"Come on. I snuck an extra helping from the kitchen. Sit up. Drink."

He eyed the pot in her hands but made no effort to move.

"Up." She sat at the foot of his bed. "I made a fuss to get this and now it's up to you to follow through. Now come on."

Pushing himself up, letting the blanket fall away, he winced but managed without assistance. Slowly, he cupped the ladle in his hands and brought it to his mouth.

He drank at her urging, giving a pained expression as if it were a great task to do so.

After swallowing the last of it he clutched his stomach, queasiness making his face pale.

"A bit much? Lay back, maybe that will help. I'll find the Elric powder."

But as she turned away, he reached out for her, gripping her dress and hoisting himself up. His body buckled and lurched, the broth he had just drunk spilling all over the pleats of her dress before she could break his grasp or urge him from the bed.

And it was right at that moment, the most inopportune of times that the trumpet sounded outside. The King had arrived, and there Isa stood: an unsightly mess.

"Eric, I must go. Let me find Angel."

His body stilling, he mumbled an apology and relaxed enough for Isa to lay him back.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

* * *

So quick she feared she would slip and fall, Isa ran for the stairs. While traversing the hall she shuffled out of her soiled shoes, stripped out of her clothes. There was no wardrobe at her disposal. She had to scour room after room to find clean clothing to wear. All the while, her heart fluttered madly in her chest.

"Angel!" Sweat poured from her brow. "Angel! Where are you!" And when only silence met her again she realized that all the servants were gone.

Did she even have enough time?

The trumpet sounded again, twice this time. Isa snatched up her thick cloak, darted down the stairs, and made it to the welcoming line right as the head magistrate stepped through the main gate. The King would soon follow.

Horses brayed, weapons clanked against saddle leather. Soon, an entourage of over fifty foots men and horsed riders filled the yard. The King's carriage made its way to the front of the line, the driver guiding the well dressed horses with clicks of his tongue.

Isa's belly swam with flutterbys as the King stepped onto Masen soil. Briefly, he glanced at her through the distance. His face solid, stern, lordly. In that moment she was nearly overcome with sickness: he returned expecting to find a willing courtesan. What was her reason? What was her excuse? _You're a snake_ wouldn't work.

She had spent the weeks not thinking about him. Her mind on reprieve from stress, from the trite and brisk offer he gave her. To him, the offer likely wasn't seen as an offer which she could dismiss, but merely a polite way to word a new deEssica.

Members of the procession dismounted noisily, greeting officers and exchanging words, taking loved ones into their arms. Stable boys collected the reigns and led the horses away. Isa's heart wouldn't settle, neither would her stomach. Her insides kept churning and bubbling.

The King made his rounds through the crowd, greeting and nodding, embracing and discussing. Once, twice, three times his eyes found Isa's. Each time felt like it lasted for far too long and made her shift on her feet.

She spent little time thinking back to _that day_ in great detail, but looking at him, eye to eye, surrounded by the Magistrate and other officials, she began to regret violating him and then taking him on the desk in his chambers.

Then he came to where she stood near the end of the crowd. Their tense eye contact, again, lasted merely a second, catching no one's attention. True to noble fashion, he turned on his heel and headed toward the castle. Isa's feet kicked into motion. As they walked, a group of men formed around the King, exchanging words, leaving her and a few others trailing behind.

This routine seemed so pertinent weeks ago. Isa could always rely on the King being active, up and about, her always in tow. Now it was a mere irritant. At some point she would be alone with the King, most likely toward the evening. He would bathe, finding a moment of relaxation before his dinner with the Tree of Lords. Would he dare discuss the matter with her then, while he was nude and she at the edge of distraction?

She had between this moment and then to form a plan, a speech of sorts in self defense—a good, proper way to explain herself.

The group made their way to the Strategy Room, a place Isa dreaded stepping foot in. She knew that plans to invade her homeland were spawned here, discussed over glasses of wine and trays of food. Being in the room was a reminder that life was led by dominance over people and ownership of land.

The room was now decorated with elements that marked King Edward's succession to the throne. Two newly crafted statues flanked the entry: two stout armored lions. Their design showed four leafs atop the lion's crown, not three. A bust of King Brisbane's set on a pedestal nearby the fireplace. His stern eyes, though carved of smooth gray stone, made Isa's stomach swim. Terrible memories were not too far away.

Hauberks and coifs of maille adorned figures of knights along the West wall while a series of shields and lances were affixed to the other. The floor was inlaid with the Royal Crest and emblems she did not know the meaning of. Maps and charts of the region had a home on a large central table. This was a strange puzzlement for Isa. Her awareness of the world was far different. The King's map didn't show all of Dwyer, but it did show two countries separated by a great distance off to the far west labeled 'Hallif Ca'Valles' and 'Tarn'. The first time she had seen it made her feel unbalanced. The world was far larger than she thought.

"Wine." One of the guards standing near the doorway prompted her.

How could she have forgotten? She bowed to the King, welcoming leave of the room if only for a few. She walked down the corridor to the holding room where the foods and goods most likely to be demanded were kept for quick retrieval.

A traupie assistant that she couldn't recall the name of guarded the entrance. They nodded in greeting. Isa's hands shook as she collected a serving tray, wiping smudge prints off the silver with her apron.

After arranging everything neatly, she picked up the tray and carried it. The light caught the rim of one glass, revealing a fat, ghastly smudge. Careful not to make a mess of things, she set the tray down and rubbed at the glass with her shift. It only smeared further. Glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone other than the assistant was near, she licked her thumb and wiped, then licked and wiped again.

With the glasses all buffed in a similar manner she headed toward the Strategy Room. The men, now seven in total, stood around the room like nobles on display. One had a brightly colored fur collar wrapped around his neck, an absurdity that made Isa want to laugh. A look at the King—his piercing gray eyes that carried with it a wash of memories both terrifying and pleasant—chased away the edge of humor.

Isa served the King first, trying to recall how she used to behave. It was a clumsy handoff, she nearly spilled the wine. He smiled slyly, his mouth turned up in one corner.

Then she presented a glass to the Stuart D'Compte. Yet another clumsy handoff. Sweat began to bead on her forehead. Twice while she passed from one lord to the next she wiped at her brow.

It became harder to concentrate as she poured another and another. She looked to the nearby window, expecting it to be covered with drips of condensation from the heat within, but it stood with ice crystals caked in the corners. The cool air on the other side was like a tease. If only she could throw open the window the room wouldn't feel so oppressing and dank. Had someone stoked a fire? But the fireplace was dim, crackling embers and nothing else, waiting for her to see to a flame.

After Isa presented all of the men with a fill of wine, Lord Honeycutt, a man of great stature with slits for eyes and a cleft in his chin, raised his glass.

Isa stepped close to the King, who studied her coolly, and gathered the tray. Turning to leave the room, her head filled with buzzing as if a flight of bees had taken rest in her ears. The light of sconces trailed in oddly illuminated streaks.

Then, Essica entered the room carrying a tray of food, her breath gathered in the air like a plume of smoke.

The room was frigid, yet Isa was perspiring.

It was all she needed to realize what was happening, but she felt nothing but a sobering fear for the King.

"Don't!" She turned quickly, the room blurring around her in a sickening stripe of light and dark. "Poison!" She let go of the tray and reached out, swatting the glass from the King's hand, then blindly went after another, and another. Glass shattering, liquid spilling, it all sounded strangely metallic and distant.

The exertion sucked the last strand of energy from her. She shifted, weightless. Glass shards prickled her skin but it was a distant awareness. Her body flushed with heat and numbness, sensing little else.

There was yelling, cursing, someone shouted her name. She thought it was the King who collected her, but her vision had already gone dark.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

* * *

"My room," Edward barked out. "Go." His body pulsed anxiously as he looked at Isa—her eyes open, whites showing, head lolled back, breath a shallow, ragged wheeze. Horrifying, but familiar. His mother was struck in much the same way mere days before her death. The first of many such deaths at the Royal House.

The guard holding Isa paused on his way through the door, turning Edward's panic to anger.

"Do as I say. My room, now." Was everyone out to defy him this week!

Edward's jaw set tight. He looked around with wild eyes as they rushed from the room and found a young servant girl standing in a dark corner. A new face. "Fetch Sue."

The girl shrank back into the darkness, her eyes catching the light, glistening.

His nostrils flared as he stepped forward, his finger pointing toward the door. His voice, burning with a horrible rage, spit out each word, "Fetch Sue now or I'll take you out and slit you open myself!"

Her mouth fell open and she gasped for air, after a moment her body took action. Running, she darted through the door.

Edward, his heavy cloak billowing with the rush of air, stalked from the room. His thoughts were clouded. It had been more than a year since the last successful poisoning. In an effort to thwart the unknown assailants Edward had removed each and every male from his staff. But still, here and now, the enemy had come to strike again. By narrowly missing him as the target, they struck down Isa.

On passing by the holding room where the wine for his consumption was stored, upon seeing the young boy assigned to watch the hold, he grabbed his collar and tossed him to the floor.

"Take him to Jasper," he barked at a nearby guard. "Start an investigation. There's a traitor among the ranks and I want him found."

His chambers, the one place he could go to escape chaos, was now embroiled with it. Isa, her expressive face wracked with the strain of delirium, lay in the center of his bed. Her body twisting and jerking as if possessed by a demon.

He tossed away his cloak and sat on the edge of the bed. "I've sent for Sue," he said, unsure if she could hear him. "She and the doctor will see to you. They'll be able to heal you." But she only heaved and jolted in response, sweat now soaking through her layers of clothing. The bedding now red from the wounds on her hands and arms.

Soon, Doctor Carlisle and Sue came.

All the power in the world, people who kissed his hand and feared his approach, yet he was useless in this moment. A mere wall fixture in his own chamber.

The doctor leaned over the bed to hold a mirror to Isa's eyes, reflecting the light to where he needed it.

"Has she expelled any fluids?" Having served the Royal House for several generations Doctor Carlisle was the only one permitted to dispense with civilities.

"No." Edward stood with his arms crossed, rubbing his fingers together to deal with the tension.

Sue soaked cloths in a basin of water. "Here." She turned to a male servant who stood just outside the door. "Help me get her situated. Come in, close the door."

"I'll assist." Edward stepped forward. No other male was to see his Isa denuded and fragile.

He followed Sue's instructions—a cloth to the forehead, lift her by the shoulders, slip her from her clothes—as he did so, his throat kept filling with a foul tang which he swallowed back repeatedly.

How had this happened? Why, and by whom? How?

"Get behind her, sit her up. Hold her mouth open." Doctor Carlisle stood by Edward's desk, running a moist sachet over a board, pressing it flat and then collecting the liquid in a cup.

Edward did as he was told. Climbing onto the bed he slipped his arm around Isa's neck and lifted her up, angling her so she leaned into him.

As the doctor urged her to swallow the serum, the King cursed himself for creating this trouble for her.

Perhaps he shouldn't have journeyed away. If he were here then the aggressor might have struck at another time. What were the odds of an incident occurring and Isa being the one to intercept?

Sue laid out strips of fabric.

"I'll have to remove the glass before I can wrap her wounds. Here—" She handed a bowl to Edward. "—hold this."

Once Isa's wounds were cleaned and wrapped, a healing poultice applied to each one, the doctor administered another cup of serum. The King situated Isa again on the bed, covering her with only a thin sheet.

Throughout the night, Edward tended to Isa in Sue's stead. He changed out the cloth on her forehead when her body chased away the coolness. When she suffered a tremor, he held her hand.

Otherwise, he paced nearby with her shift clutched between his fingers. It smelled faintly of her, a lovely soft scent that reminded him of the long journey back to Masen after departing Dwyer. That entire month marked a turning point for Edward. He departed as a boy in his father's footsteps and returned as a man venturing down his own path. The room in which his father had tossed Isa while aboard the Ship Menimis smelled strongly of her. A type of fruit, perhaps a flower. Something foreign and lovely.

But the scent of straw was now far heavier on her shift. This is what she had been reduced to? That natural beauty of hers diminished to mucking through straw? This is why she deserved far more than servitude and daily duties.

Isa deserved respect, a place of honor. Courtesan was the most he could offer her without stirring response from the Royal House.

By night fall, Isa's tremors had diminished. Her breath still came rough and she continued to sweat, but not as much. The serum, now administered twice, had begun its work, purging the toxins from her body.

The last days of Edward's mother's life brought an end to a relatively peaceful period in the Kingdom. Before she was struck down by the wayward hand of liquid assassination, talk of traversing the End Sea and engaging the distant neighbors to the south had rarely been broached.

Strange that when his father—blinded by thirst for vengeance upon the death of his wife and Queen, Dora, deaf to those who opposed him—chose to invade Dwyer, that fateful decision would alter the course of the country's future. Not only the future of the country, but the way Edward's heart would beat and the very images that filled his dreams at night.

Rather than the endless nightmares of his mother's last week, he dreamed of Isa. The way she held her head high even when her eyes were downcast. Her shoulders never slumped, her body never showed signs of tiring. She conducted her duties with a noble grace—born to lead, not to serve.

When the last of the sun dipped below the horizon, taking with it the daylight, the hall fell silent. Together for only a short while after his return, not so much as a word spoken, this was the first moment in which he was alone with her.

For days he had hoped his return, his first moments alone with Isa, would be spent close together seeing to desires of the flesh. Instead, he watched anxiously for signs of improvement.

His body heavy and worn frail after the weeks away with no deep rest, he shed only his vest and accouterments. In shirt and trousers, he sat at the edge of the bed. He watched her for a time, feeling a slight less bit of worry. But then another tremor took hold. He leaned over and took her hand in his, only to find her fingertips cold.

Carefully, he lifted the edge of the sheet and slipped underneath. Scooting toward her until she was nestled against his chest, he cupped her cheek with his hand and kissed her softly.

Slowly, her body warmed. He lay next to her with his head held by his hand, the other clasped around her hands to spread warmth. In this way, Edward kept his eyes on her, watching the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, until sleep came.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

* * *

Isa lay still, waiting for the hammering to stop, but the rhythmic beating continued on. Desperate for it to end, she tried to speak, to tell whomever it was to leave her be, but her tongue was thick and fat in her mouth. Attempting to open her eyes was like hoisting a ship out of water.

After a while, and with great relief, she was able to crack her eyelids a small bit. Blinding, bright, vibrant light pierced her vision. The chaotic rhythm in her head raged on, sharper and harder, the beat of a thundering drum. She forced herself to stare down the light. The brightness began to fade, slowly becoming tolerable, and then less brilliant, and soon it was at a reasonable level which only stung.

Doctor Carlisle stood over her, his voice sounding like the ting of a glass. Clear tension, an anxiety she hadn't seen in a long while, was in the eyes of the King. Doctor Carlisle maintained a more reserved expression, deep in thought, taking in signs of breath and blood.

"Her pallor is more natural," the doctor said as he focused discerning hands on her. "Can you hear?"

She tried to speak but it was of no use. She could nod slowly.

"Ah. Much more responsive than the last few times she woke." He touched fingertips to her mouth, prying open her lips to run his fingers along her gums and teeth. "Water," he said over his shoulder.

The effort to keep her eyes open was too difficult.

Hands shook her awake.

"Not too hard."

Isa's eyes flew open at the King's harsh tone. Sue hovered next to her, a glass in her hand. The King hovered around the foot of the bed, arms crossed, body in motion—pacing.

"Come. Sit. Try to drink." Sue braced one arm behind Isa's back and urged her to sit upright.

The hammering in her head started anew, her vision pulsed and danced. She clenched her eyes shut and pushed against the stiffness. Another arm wrapped around her, easing the way.

The effort needed to sit was draining. She wanted to lie back down and sink into the softness of the bed beneath her. Once upright, she held still for a moment, breathing deep. The moment she noticed whose bed she lay in she wanted to hop up, but the cool rim of a glass pressed to her lips. She drank deep to slake her thirst. The water tasted clean, refreshingly cool, nothing like the water from the fount near the servant's quarters.

"Do you remember what happened?" the King asked, his mouth close to her ear.

While she drank he had seated himself on the edge of the bed. _His bed_. The overwhelming sense of crossing too many lines stirred, but when she looked to his face she didn't care. He was smiling, bright and genuine.

"Yes . . . I believe," she managed to say as her eyes fell to the crook of his neck. Stubble ran along his jaw, he was in much need of a shave. She thought back to dismounting a red horse, falcons flying overhead, an icy lake. No, that wasn't the right memory. "Perhaps not."

Still smiling, he explained what had happened, giving only the slightest of details.

Yet all Isa focused on was the way his lips moved when he talked and how, the last time she was able to study him so up close, she was in control of the situation. Now, she lay in his bed, sick, and he stood on his feet, talking so quickly she couldn't keep up.

A dazed chill faded as she realized what more had gone on while she lay sick underneath his covers. Poison. There was a boy who stood guard outside the room? But she couldn't remember his name! "Who was he?" Her mouth was dry like sand.

The King met her eyes for a moment before occupying himself with the blanket around her. She didn't have the strength to ask again.

ooo

The hall outside the bedchamber was silent for a time. Several glasses of water throughout the day had finally worked their way through Isa's body. She needed to relieve herself but refused to wait for help from Sue. With a blend of determination to not be waited on, and the need to be away from the King's personal chamber, she dared to pull herself from the bed.

Feet dangling over the edge, she slipped down from the plush bedding until her toes touched the floor. A strange tingling sensation shot along her feet, all throughout her muscles, coursing and surging.

The poison was highly effective, and she had been exposed to such a small amount. No doubt that the men she served in the Strategy Room would have all been dead if she hadn't discovered it by accident. Including the King. And that thought brought sour tears to her eyes; she pretended it was because of the pain she was in.

Sagging against the wall, sweating profusely, body shaking, cold making her shudder. Legs shaking, panting, she eased herself down the wall, to the floor, waiting for it to pass.

"A'dri!" Sue raced into the room, cursing wildly.

"All right. I only need to . . . ." Breathless, Isa wiped her palm across her forehead, coming away with a wet hand. Then she was in the air, being carried to where she needed to go.

When she was on her feet again it was with horrifying embarrassment that she realized the King had carried her. Using his privy chamber while he was there? She found it quite difficult to put him out of her mind.

Then, when she was finished, Sue called him into the room to carry her back.

Exhausted, she was finally placed in the center of the bed without even the strength to cover her legs out of modesty. She lay shaking, her sweat soaking into the cream coverlets. It was incredibly soft. Her body a bit more aware of things could appreciate that much.

The mattress dipped and jiggled, the covers were slowly pulled out from underneath her.

"What . . . ?" was all she had the strength to say when the King rolled her onto her side and nestled himself behind her.

He said nothing as he brought a cool, wet cloth to her forehead. Lips pressed to her hair and lingered there for a moment. If she had the energy she would have pushed him away, but she did not. She could only let him touch and caress the cloth to her sticky skin.

A shudder rippled through her and he nuzzled close. Her eyes drifted closed. She made a note to herself that they would have to talk about this when she woke in the morning. Until that time was to come, she enjoyed the feel of him against her, pretending that they were simpletons in a quaint home, a village far away.

ooo

Other than Sue, Doctor Carlisle, and the King, Isa saw no one. Once her head began to clear and the memory of the other day returned to her, she thought more about the poison and who would have done such a thing. The boy, the one given the station as a guard outside the room, being found guilty of the poison didn't make sense. If he were to attempt to harm anyone then why stay, standing by to only get caught? And hadn't Gruntie, the kitchen supervisor, decided who would guard the storage and who would not? But there was no talk of Gruntie having been taken in and questioned.

But it was too late, things were done. An innocent boy had already paid with his life. Feeble justice was swift in Masen.

"How's Eric?" Isa asked as Sue helped her to the privy chamber.

"He's well, returned home days ago. Apologized for the mess of your clothing."

That made Isa's eyebrows pucker with a bit of sadness. He had gone without saying goodbye? Neverthemind, she brushed it off. She promised she would aide him if possible and she would still do so.

"And Essica and Angel?"

"They're both well."

That was it, all was well? All didn't feel well, though. All felt horribly wrong. This wasn't how things should be. She turned it over and over in her head and each time she came to the same end conclusion: All was well meant that if she had died, no great loss.

If the King had died, the country would have turned in on itself as it had done before upon the death of King Brisbane. The King's death would have had the young girls weeping in the streets, an entire nation lost.

Perhaps Sue was lying and things had fallen apart terribly in Isa's absence. And Isa quickly surmised that no one was affected by the death of the boy, save for Isa. And no one would have been affected by the death of Isa . . . well, save for Essica.

The effort to reason while her head still ached was a poor use of faculties. She needed more rest.

Upon returning to her bed she caught sight of herself in the mirror and, much to her shocked surprise, she wasn't wearing her shift, but a cream-colored woven number with fanciful cording. How long had she been dressed this way? A memory of her mother surfaced: long hair braided over her shoulder, royal emblems decorating her form, wearing a cream and blue cloak on the eve of the Equinox Celebration at Dua Crescent. The memory was so vivid, so clear in Isa's mind, it brought with it a wave of emotion.

Sue touched cool fingers to her hand. "Is something wrong?"

Isa didn't belong in such things—the sensation was intense. "If my clothes are clean I'll have them now." She took in a shuddery breath.

Saying nothing, Sue helped her back to the bed. Isa resisted, wanting only distance from the bed and the lordly things.

"Leave us." The words were presented to Sue with that authoritative tone that only nobles need master.

Dread filled Isa as Sue left and the King entered. There were other matters to discuss, she knew. Was he here to discuss these things now? She was not well enough yet for this conversation. But she couldn't stand the thought of him daring to bring it up and catch her off guard.

"M'Lord, you've been too kind. I am on the mend, now, and I need—"

"No, you do not need to return to your chores." He leaned against the foot of the bed. "I have assigned Sue to you. Someone else will see to your duties."

Isa scowled at her folded hands. "I have no interest in having my superior wait on me, hand and foot."

"Sue is no longer your superior."

"I have no desire to be your courtesan."

"We will discuss that later. You nearly gave your life for me, the least I can do is relieve you of the burden of your station."

Clenching her teeth, Isa glared at the bedding. As she imagined, it wasn't truly an offer, it was a silver-tongued edict. Salting a wound. First, she was plucked from her home. Then, she was forced to heed a lowly station. Now, he decided that she would be something else. Or more so, nothing at all. How many decisions would he make for her?

"I am no longer your servant?"

"Correct."

"And I am not your courtesan?"

"Do you truly not want to be?"

She sighed, contented. "Very well then. Fetch Sue. I would like to bathe . . . please."

He stepped forward, reaching for her hand. She gave it reluctantly. His eyes searched hers, seeming on the edge of a question, curiosity storming inside. Perhaps he was looking for overwhelming joy or gratitude where there was none.

ooo

The first real bath Isa had taken since she had come here to Masen. The water was deep, warm, and soothing. It smelled of rose and peonies. For however many times she had made bars of soap, she had never used one. Not a full bar, anyway. The water would stay warm for several hours, and Isa intended on making use of every one.

She laid her head back against the sculpted edge and draped a warm cloth over her face. Focusing on her body and her mind, she took all her anxiousness, tension, and unease, and shoved it aside. For a short while she would be listless in the water, mind empty.

"Are you still here?" Angel came into the room.

Isa was too far gone in her small inner world to really take note.

"I heard you're no longer one of us. Is it true?"

Isa sighed, her peace evaporating. She peeled the cloth from her face and blinked in the light. "You heard correctly."

"What are you going to do, then?"

"I was thinking about leaving."

Angel was silent for a moment, and then she let out a thunderous laugh so loud it made Isa flinch. "Leaving?"

"I'm no longer his servant. I don't need to stay."

"Is that what he said?"

"In a way."

"Where were you thinking of going?"

Water drizzled from the cup of Isa's hand into the tub, her thoughts distant. "I was thinking of going home."

"Home? Your home is a long way away. It's winter."

Isa wrung the cloth out and draped it over her face again. "Perhaps I'll die on the way there, then."

Fabric rustled and rushed softly. "The King sent these with Sue. I wanted to see how you were so I brought them for you."

Silence hung around for a while.

"Well then," Angel said. "I guess I'll go. Essica was asking about you. Do you want me to send her up when you're done?"

"Up where? Her room's right down the hall from mine."

"No, Isa. The King's given you a new room."

And that made Isa open her eyes wide and look to Angel in disbelief. "What?"

"Right next to his. I don't think I'm supposed to tell you, though. Sorry."

"No, I'm glad you did. He thinks I'm going to live next to him?"

Angel nodded. "I've been there to make the bed. It's beautiful. You'll love it."

With the peace thoroughly destroyed, Isa stood.

"I have no intention of moving into the palace. Don't be facetious."

"Why not?" Angel handed Isa a towel. "If the King were to ask me to be his Lady of the Night I'd jump at the chance."

Done with the conversation, Isa ruffled her hair with the towel before realizing what Angel just said. _She knew._

"How did you find out what the King wants from me, anyway?"

"I've read the letter," Angel said, matter-of-fact. "We all did."

ooo

Standing in the doorway to Essica's room, Isa couldn't believe what she had heard. "You think I should say yes?"

Essica nodded, fussing over the contents of a small box. "Not many will have the opportunity to step above their station. And here you are, doing exactly so, and you don't want it."

Isa cursed Angel's name, that nosey little fool. "My station?" she snarked. "Indeed."

"This is your chance, our chance, to reclaim what was taken. Yet you don't have a goal for yourself, no purpose. You, in fact, seem quite content to be merely a servant. It didn't make sense at first but now I know why."

"I don't know what to say to that." Isa's mind was buzzing.

Essica now held a small strip of fabric between her fingers. It danced about as she punctuated her words with her hands. "Angel believes you've come to care for him quite a bit."

"Angel told you I loved the King?"

"She used the term, "infected by affection," but yes."

Isa's frustration with Angel turned into anger at that. Essica crossed the room, took Isa by the shoulders and then spun her around. The trees danced in the wind across the way. The landscape was dreary, gray, and cold.

"I feel no such thing toward him," Isa said after a while.

"Is that why you're still here?"

Isa didn't bother to answer.

"It's all right, Isa. We can make plans together."

"Plans for what? My whoredom?"

Essica bundled Isa's hair and began to string the blue ribbon through it to hold it in place. "You were willing to take on the role of the Fianta. Now, is it that much better to be only a servant? Powerless?"

With a great amount of shame Isa had to admit, "I'm no longer able to be your Fianta."

"Isa," Essica sighed and turned her back around. "Your road is water."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that you don't have a choice. You being a Fianta or not isn't for you to decide. Your road is water. You either cross it, or you get swept up in the current."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

* * *

Wind blew so violent and strong that the windows rattled. Chill cut through the air in her little room, the fifth on the right. If Isa pressed her face to the window and craned her neck she could catch sight of the King's castle wing, only a sliver of gray peeking out overtop the castle's vestibule.

He was in there somewhere, having called for her several times. How long would the King wait, irritated and all the more restless, before he came to find her?

Or was he asleep, his mind not on her at all?

The moon was now high overhead, almost midnight. She crawled onto her bed, curling up, though the thin layer of blankets did little to block out the cold.

 _Your road is water_.

Isa scoffed at Essica's words, refusing to believe she had no choice.

Would it be so bad? Even now, with part of her spiting him for all he was worth, the idea of being with him again was enticing. Try as she might, she couldn't push away the memory of her mouth on his that first time. His hands on her hips, the feel of him inside her. Most of all, above all, the look in his eyes—a twisted pain, a needful begging.

As soon as she began to entertain the possibilities, she thought of her father. An image in her mind so sharp and clear it made her heart swell. _What do you think of me?_ She asked of him but no answer came.

ooo

Voices, loud in the hallway, woke her. The room was still dark, the sun had not risen. Yet the voices were loud, sharp, full of command, as were the footsteps.

"Is she ill?"

Suddenly, Isa's heart filled her throat.

Someone knocked loudly. "The King has requested your presence."

She cursed herself for not leaving Masen Palace when she had the mind to. No! She couldn't help but let Angel and Essica talk her into staying.

More aware of every embarrassing, tattered scrap of clothing on her body than ever before, she stood and followed. _The road is water._ The guard's footsteps echoed with a rhythmic thunk thunk as they walked through the quarter.

"Why did you not come when requested?" the King asked when she entered his chamber. Not quite demanding, but close.

That question, before exploring carnality and so many other things together, would have garnered a humble answer, one filled with apology. What really came from her was snide defiance: "Last we spoke you had relieved me of my station."

"Of this—" His cloaked arm swept through the air, motioning to her clothes, the room. "—yes, but not of the expectation to come when your King called for you."

 _You are not my King_ bubbled in her throat. "My clothing's fine."

He began to amble about the room, hands behind him, shoulders hunched. "I have given you a new room."

"I don't want it." She moved as he moved, keeping distance between them.

His expression froze in place, a stringent tension underneath. "I don't want to continue being your captor or your enemy."

With a twist of shocked relief, his pleading tone made her recall a thread of long forgotten advice her father once gave: _Attentive listeners make both frightful enemies and close friends. Isa, as Fianta you are to be a very astute listener._

Father wasn't telling her to merely be quiet, good, and to listen well. There was so much more to it than that. _Attentive listeners make frightful enemies._ The realization of what he truly meant that day called to her long dead soul, the spark that was snuffed flamed further to life.

Bravely, feeling defiant but showing only respectful grace, she lifted her eyes and met the King's, his shrouded in shadow. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

He acted affronted, as if she were accusing an innocent man of murder on a whim.

Propriety be damned, after spending the last fifteen months of her life asleep she was awake now. "I'd like to know what happened. What changed. At what point did you go from the son of the vile man who slaughtered my entire bloodline in a fortnight to a kind hearted King _pretending_ as if my welfare and future is of any worth or meaning?"

"Does it matter how and at which point?" he said, his voice low, his words filled with concern.

Beyond the attractive lull of his voice, that deep sweep of his vowels and the sharp properness of his consonants, she would listen to what he did have to say. He would say it, even if she had to force it out of him.

"It does."

The King worried his fingers, rubbing them together slightly as he regarded her. "You want to know how I see you?"

Isa's breath pulsed through her lungs but she didn't shy away. "If it's anything other than a barbarian imbecile only good for physical pleasu—" Startled, she stepped back when he advanced two steps toward her, but the edge of the bed was in the way causing her knees to buckle.

"You would rather I let you die that night, slaughtered like all the others . . . than live here with me?"

"Why didn't you sever my throat as you did theirs?"

He swallowed and stood, shifting awkwardly, lifting his hand to her neck, but he didn't touch. "I took the higher, more dignified route."

"The raid was the dignified route?"

"Don't be foolish. I rescued you."

"You're trying to make it sound like you did me a favor. It's not working."

"It's clear you don't know as much about your country's political banter as you should."

Reaching out, Isa dared to push him away. "That's a laugh! The man who slaughtered an entire family did it for me so I could take my rightful place as his floor scrubber! How foolish do you think I am!"

"I spared you for that sharp tongue I've come to miss!"

Isa could feel the look of disgust and disbelief on her face, delivering every bit of what she felt. "Miss it?" She shook her head to rid herself of confused thoughts. "There's no excuse. I'm only a—" Her mouth snapped shut so quickly her teeth clacked.

He slid one hand over her side. His eyes lust-fallen.

"You want me as your courtesan? Why haven't you simply instructed for me to do so?"

His brow lifted in question. "That might be the way of some, but I will not have an unwilling courtesan by my side." His hand tightened against her as he drew her close. "In my bed."

She turned her eyes away but thrilled to the smell of wine on his lips and the race of his pulse drumming lightly under his skin. Her mind disapproved but her body felt an excitement when against his. There was something inviting about his warmth, his solid form against hers. She struggled to maintain her disheartened thoughts and irritated distance, but she could feel her control slip.

And then, like being touched by a beam of brilliant light, she realized that there was such a way she could keep her enemy close as her father had instructed. If the road was water then she'd build herself a bridge.

Lifting her face and pressing her lips to his for a kiss long coming took little thought. A mindless, pure-hearted effort. The sweat on his skin let her fingers slip as she wrapped both hands around his neck. She squeezed softly, fingers right underneath the spur of his jaw.

Wet, sweet, deep. Isa clutched him to her, stumbling with him as he lowered her to the bed. He tried to pull away, but she held him tightly. She didn't want to let go, this was right, mouth to mouth, body to body.

Sighing with a groan, he ran his hand down the length of her leg, seeking out the hem. Slowly, he drew the fabric up, higher, until his wide palm came to rest on her knee. At the gentle urging of his hand, she let her legs spread enough for him to lie between.

But as he thrust himself against her, putting pressure against her sex, she felt pent up, anxious. Things weren't like before. He was leading, she was following.

With a gasp, she ended the kiss. "Take your clothes off."

He stilled, mouth agape, panting. "What?"

"I stripped you the last time." The memory of doing so, the sight of him with his hands raised, danced in her mind's eye. A grin, wickedly sweet, crept across her mouth. "Now, I want to watch you take your clothes off."

He still hovered over her, not moving, only thinking. His skin turning a beautiful shade of embarrassed pink.

"Go on." Pushing against his chest, she urged him up. "Let me see."

Unhinged, like a box tossed and misshapen, he stood. Time hung in the air strangely like a wet, heavy blanket. He looked around, dressed as a confident King but seeming to be the shy one.

His awkwardness made her smile. After a long moment he finally brought himself to meet her eyes, and he held them as his expression shifted from befuddled awkwardness, to one of confidence.

He took ahold of the belt clasp at his front and slowly drew the leather through. Painfully slow. And as he did so, his eyes didn't leave Isa's. She pushed back to rest against the pillows.

Eyes still fixed on her, he drew the belt from around his waist. The air shifted, growing thicker, darker. He was taking her fun intrigue and turning it into something sensuous. Isa swallowed nervously, her attempt to take the lead quickly failing.

His belt, with a cracking snap of the leather, was tossed to the floor. The lacings of his shirt undone, the part of his collar spread further. Lacings, leather, skin. As he slowly removed every thread of clothing he kept his eyes on her, never leaving, never wavering. What was she thinking when she asked him to do this? The room faded to black.

Gripping the trim of his trousers, the last article of clothing on his being, he bent at the waist, slowly drawing the fabric down. He stepped out of each leg and soon he stood there, arms crossed, shaft hard, long hair spilling over his shoulders, muscles rigid. Defined, pale, nude.

Incredible.

"Is that what you like?"

It was like a whip cracking against her skin, that question. The words popped in her ears and did strange things to her body. But she didn't move toward him.

"You enjoy telling me what to do?"

"I'm not the only one who likes it," she said, eyes on his hardness. "I want to watch you."

Apt pupil he was, he didn't hesitate, not even a moment. His hand gripped his shaft, eyes intent on her, and he stroked, full and long. Slow.

A vivid fascination boiled inside her as she watched. She noted every slight movement—the veins of his arm, the pulse of his muscles, the way his fingers curled tightly around himself. She felt on the edge of everything, wanting to crawl across the bed, across the floor, and take him in her hands, her mouth, her quim.

But she didn't.

She laid back, one arm holding herself up, the other hurriedly finding the hem of her skirt, hiking it high, until cool air touched her sex. The cotton of her bloomers a wet, sticky mess that clung to her skin. She didn't waste time trying to undress—to slip them off—she only slipped her hand inside like she had done so many nights alone in her room.

His eyes on her, wide and fixed, while her eyes stayed on his hand that now worked roughly over himself, slick with sweat.

Right as she reached the point where it was all enough—almost too much, her hand working furiously over her heated slit—he took several short strides to the bed. He placed a knee alongside her, letting go of himself for a moment to reach for her undergarment.

"No," Isa spoke with a sensuous, commanding tone that thrilled even herself to hear. "On me."

He halted, holding still for a moment, and then he reached for her bodice instead. With a frantic hand, he tugged and yanked at the plume of white fabric inside, exposing her cleavage and the top crescent of her breast. She wrapped her hand around his, eyes traveling between his face and his urgent grip.

Arching and grunting over her like an exotic animal gone mad, he spilled his searing hot seed over her skin. The closeness of him against her, the carnal sounds that came from him and echoed through the room, with all of this she found her own release.

The scent of satisfaction hung in the air.

Isa wrapped her arms around his back, pulling him down to the bed with her. The King, with a tired laugh, embraced her with sweetness.

This, if only she could have this moment last, everything would be okay. Sighing, keeping him close, terribly close, Isa rested her head against his bare chest, running her fingers over the fine curls of hair there. "If I say yes, what will you ask of me?"

Was it her body or her heart that found a sliver of the idea appealing?

"You will travel with me as an honored companion." He ran his fingers along her cheek and kissed her temple. "You'll eat with me at mealtimes. Your waking hours will be spent keeping me company and seeing to other needs . . . not my floors and not my robes."

 _Your enemies close_ . . . . She clenched her eyes tightly and tried to push aside the sound of her father's voice. Would her father understand the twisted mangle that she felt inside or was her heart blackened and rotting like flesh in the grave?

The King swept hair away from her neck. "There will be a gala in the northern country of Denali. I would love nothing more than for you to attend with me."

With the sound of his heartbeat in her ear, his arms around her, it was so easy to forget, to let things slip. It was her body, that craving for him, that answered.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

* * *

Isa had grown accustomed to wearing rougher fabrics, her hair wrapped tightly in a coil atop her head, her feet bound with woolen socks and trapped inside worn leather boots. When she slipped the silken fabric over her head for the first time it was a strange, suffocating sensation.

In the past, Isa would have worn finely woven pieces—firm fibers shaped into a form fitted encasement. Such things were made by villagers at Nesreet, a port along Dwyer's northern coast. Those at Nesreet were pleased to weave for the royal families of the nation. That was in strange contrast to the moment: standing dressed in materials shaped and fitted by those who would rather she rot. It was the meaning behind it all, the sign of being Masen and not Dwyer that irritated her as did playing the courtesan and the light color itself. Ladies of Masen often wore white, peach, pink, salmon, cream. Beautiful, but it took far more time and effort to keep clean. Isa had quickly gone from admiring the hues of Masen to loathing them.

And against her darker skin, the contrast was more vivid. She lifted her hands, turning them over to see her palms. Calluses near the crook of each forefinger and along the girth of each palm were evidence of carrying heavy items day after day.

Essica clasped her hands. "Never you mind that. No one cares."

"I can't do this."

"It's a game, Isa. A game of dolls." With a smile set on her lips, Essica stacked the last of the firewood in the far corner of the room. "Like when you were younger."

"I only played with husk dolls."

"Well now you're a porcelain doll."

Isa gave her a questioning look. Though she was a countryman from Dwyer, Essica had come into some unique concepts and words that were unfamiliar.

"A fancy doll," Essica explained.

Isa straightened herself, forcing her hands to rest by her sides. "Did he do what he promised?"

Essica poked at the fire, flames crackled and sparked. "He did. We have oil lamps in the halls, rugs in each room. Soon, more blankets for winter."

"Good." Isa fussed with the front of her bodice unnecessarily. "This is silly. I feel like a trollop."

A small log tumbled loose from the stack of firewood. Isa stepped quickly to retrieve it.

"No," Essica scolded. "Don't you dare."

Stepping back, Isa gave a frustrated sigh. "I'll never get used to this. It's so strange. I don't think I like you waiting on me."

"This isn't a time to doubt yourself and entertain regrets. This is a time to embrace the opportunity. Then you can see to what needs to be done."

"And what is that?" Isa asked, turning sideways as to see herself more clearly in the mirror, realizing how much she preferred her old clothes from home and even her servant's dress. It didn't present a false front . . . or back.

A knock on the door echoed in the room. Isa looked over her shoulder, dreading the moment that door would open. It made everything more official, permanent. Public.

"Almost time, m'Lady." Essica grinned, her cheeks turning a brilliant red.

"You sound like Angel. I'm Isa, not m'Lady," she mocked Essica's deeper voice while swiping one hand over her neckline to brush off a piece of fluff.

"Stop worrying. You have to be introduced properly to the court. They know who you are and where you come from, but it's necessary for them to see you in your new station. It's no different than the many events you've attended in your life, I'm sure."

As Essica spoke her voice took on a matronly tone that reminded Isa of home. Kind hearted Melaire; her gray hair bundled with a hand woven blue scarf, coming to the home to bring a basket of bread pudding, checking in on her, Ruben, and Wheant. Isa's hand found its way to her heart and clenched the fabric there.

"You sound so much like Melaire. My father admired her for her tenacity and cooking skills. She must have passed it on to you."

Essica's eyes darkened with emotion and she nodded before leaving.

ooo

Isa's hands shook, but the billows of peach fabric at her hips helped to hide it. She imagined that the King would greet her at the door, perhaps talk to her outside the Gallery before entering with her, maybe give a kiss, but she made her way down the cavernous corridor alone. He did not greet her, no one did.

Two guards, armed with long swords, their hats topped with bristled plumes, barely nodded in greeting as they opened the doors. A clatter of dishware, a sea of indecipherable voices, the scent of poached and fried foods, and a single peal of laughter filled the grand room. She stood, frozen, cursing herself for agreeing. This all for sex? Things seemed so much simpler before with a bucket and sop cloth in her hand. The lack of something to do make her feel naked as did the silence that fell on the room when she slowly entered.

She knew that dropping her eyes would be the wrong thing to do. Instead, she mustered a slight smile and stepped forward, carefully.

A harsh glare met her eyes—a sneering lip, a furrowed brow. She knew it was going to be odd, seeing as how she was a vestige of a fallen enemy. Her history was no secret, but still.

Then, finally, she came to the one face that was pleased to see her. With a pleasant surprise she found she could look at him squarely without that sharpness in her temple.

The King smiled as she had never seen him smile before. Fully, deep, it touched his eyes and lit up his face. Dressed in his plush red and purple robe with fur lining his neck, his dress sword slung underneath his robe, his hand resting on the hilt, feet spread slightly apart—he belonged here.

The King extended his hand in invite. Adverting her eyes from the judgmental stares, Isa made her way to him. The room was silent; her footsteps echoed softly, muted by the bell of fabric that spread out around her. It didn't escape her notice that she was the only female in the room. This was the first time for her to attend any such gathering, and now she wondered if this was held only for the court to become acquainted with her. Maybe they would have been more receptive if she were in the stark.

Sue's stern advice, "Don't speak unless spoken to . . . don't sigh or make other loud noises . . . don't . . . don't . . . don't," rushed through Isa's head. She had huffed at Sue earlier in the day, irritated, but now in the moment she felt that if Sue hadn't stressed so many rules with her she wouldn't know what to do.

 _Walk forward, eyes wide, friendly expression._

She arrived at the King's hand without tripping, without meeting any harsh glares. She clasped his proffered hand and he brought her knuckles to his mouth for a kiss. His eyes lit brightly, his cheeks tightened. He seemed wholly different in this moment, so enthralled and buoyant, that heat rushed to her cheeks.

"Lady Isa," someone announced.

Her forehead puckered with a scowl at the title—Didn't they know she served the wine?—but she smoothed it away quickly, curtsying slightly as Sue had instructed.

"Your Majesty." She never had to address him as such before and doing so made her crack a smile.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

* * *

The tension in the room was palpable. Eyes on Isa, harsh and pierced with feelings they failed to hide, angered Edward. After months of wanting, needing, but not having, he finally found the courage to make things happen and yet they openly challenged him in such a way.

They hadn't disapproved of Evangeline. They hadn't disapproved of Rose. But they openly disapproved of Isa. The thought of purging the whole of the Royal House had come, but only briefly.

But Isa, if she noticed, showed no response. That intense grace of her coming through even now. And there Isa sat, collect on the outside. Was she churning and frothing on the inside? The mystery of what lay behind her expressive face, what caused her to purse her lips as she walked, puzzled him. Perhaps now that she was his he could pluck a few truths from her, explain away such mysteries.

Her hand, small and warm, was like a reassurance. So long as he was able to be near her, touch her, everything maintained a preferable balance.

"What do you think?" he asked, his fingers skimming the small of her back as she sat.

Isa smiled, her gray eyes dancing with flecks of gold. "It's lovely."

Conversation slowly rose, first at the far end of the table. Then, a gentlemen seated near to Edward spoke, asking about the journey north, how that had gone.

Edward traced his finger around the rim of his glass. "Let us not spoil the mood by bringing up such unpleasantness." Lifting his glass he offered a silent toast, but didn't bring it to his lips to drink, not until he tasted it with his own finger—his thoughts on Isa and the dire events that had recently unfolded.

The conversation around Edward attempted to swell and include him, but his attention was on Isa. Even Rose had not possessed the appealing grace with which Isa ate—the way her fingers held the stem of the fork with gentile balance, how her tongue peeked out to lick a drip of wine from her mouth.

For most of his life Edward hadn't questioned his father's stance toward the Dwyer. They were of a different cultures, less refined, foreign—barbaric by all accounts. All of that came to a strange turn when he saw Isa for the first time. It was her brilliant green dress that caught his eye at first. Her fists clenching the fabric so she could run with a bow slung across her back, looking for someone or something behind barrels of wine. She didn't cower, she didn't hide, she seemed oblivious to the chaotic events around her. Shock? Finding what she was searching for, the girl stepped behind an outcrop of stone near the entry of a wooden structure.

His assigned duty, their mission, their purpose—the potent anger and sour taste for vengeance that drove him to accompany his father on the venture—forgotten. He followed her, suddenly desperate to see to her safety. It was a strange, otherworldly compulsion but yet he didn't question it. It only felt right. And when he finally did find her she sat against a sandstone wall, a sword in her hand, her arms quivering, but not from fear. Her eyes were steady, wide, sharp enough to cut straight to his emotions that had been boxed away for months on end.

In an instant, a life of decisions and values weighed out. His father's orders to kill anyone who crossed their path played through his mind. Before he even followed the girl around the corner he knew he couldn't follow through. Killing her would have been a monstrous sin like God slaughtering an angel.

Even when she struggled to raise the broadsword, he dismissed his father's orders.

The clatter of a serving platter in the hallway cracked off the walls, snapping Edward out of his well-worn memories. He reached out for Isa's hand, holding it gingerly. Her eyes fell to where their hands were clasped. Even this small contact with her after endless months of his soul being taunted by the sway of her hips was rewarding.

Isa, smiling politely, pulled her hand from his and took a sip of her wine. Was she upset? Tired?

With that, dinner was done. He'd rather spend his time with Isa, starting their new venture together, not sipping wine and nibbling foods. Edward stood quickly, pulling Isa to her feet.

"Lord Naimbers, Lord Honeycutt." He nodded politely to the two men seated nearby and then addressed the room as a whole with a few pleasantries in parting.

Lord Naimbers nodded once to Isa, tipping his glass.

"Evening, Sirs." She curtsied with grace.

That act did give him pause. Until that moment he had always associated the properness of a curtsy with young children, but now . . . there was a maturity to it. Even a seductive lilt.

"You're my companion, now," he said as the Gallery door shut behind them. "I don't require you to remain abjectly silent when it's the two of us." He brought her hand to his mouth for a kiss. "Sweet Isa."

Isa didn't relax against him as he wanted, she walked stiffly.

"Is this strange?" he asked while slipping his arm around her shoulder.

"This is . . . very new, m'Lord."

"Edward," he corrected. "While we're alone I'd prefer for you to call me by my given name."

She pulled her arm from his and clasped his hand at her side.

"When we discussed the nature of our arrangement I thought I made it quite clear: there is to be no calling of names such as Sweet Isa."

This spicy discontent she showed wet his appetite for her. "Yet, you conceded that I could do as I please."

"Within reasonable limits."

"Sexually," he reminded her.

She said nothing more as they walked down the length of the North Hall. They had traveled this hall together numerous times, but with her always behind him.

He held many fond memories of her here. Isa moving to and from his room, her feet padding softly, the gentle sway of her hips. Him stepping around the corner to find her stretching or leaning to clean and sweep. Her carrying blankets, trays of food.

When the door clicked shut behind him he pulled her close with one firm tug. Her body crushed against his, the rhythm of her heart drummed wildly. He wanted to carry her to the bed and stay there for hours, touching and tasting.

Isa tensed, her hands shaking. And then he remembered her, weeks before, telling him that she was afraid of him. That panic that sent her spiraling out of control, was it just underneath the surface now?

"I'll never violate you," he said, lifting one hand to her chin with a feather-light touch. "I'll only always give you respect, and ask for your respect in return."

She huffed with amusement. "I recall quite clearly when my disrespect drew a rather strong response from you." Her hands trailed along his back, up, until her fingertips met his hair.

Weeks ago, that delicious lick of fury which she poured out on him, vicious and raw, had filled him with such intense lust that he couldn't hear through the fog.

The cuts she left stung for days after, giving him sweet reminders.

"Not today. I've served you an injustice, taking from you and never giving. Now, I'd like to amend that wrong."

Her hands on his back stilled. "After you were the one to force me down?"

Her words, sharp, caused that sinful excitement to build inside. The throbbing ache numbed him to the feel of his arms around her, his hands firm on her backside. This time, he felt no shame for thrilling to the idea of another rage driven night with her.

He brought his mouth to her ear. "Did you enjoy that as much as I did? Did it feel good, taking it out on me? Is that was you need?"

Her body shuddered against him and she lifted her face to his. "Whatever happened to Rose?"

Thoughtless, he answered, "She had other things to see to."

She paused for a minute before replying, "So did I."

"Being a sacrificial lamb on your altar?"

Isa's eyes widened and her chest fell as she exhaled in a sudden rush. Tears instantly pricked her eyes. She tried to pull away from him. He gripped her tightly, trying to discern the meaning behind her tears.

"Did you always know?"

Disbelief and bitterness took over her features.

Something told him not to tell her, to leave it at that because these weren't tears of relief or appreciation, but hurt. Her fate, her full role as a Fianta was latent knowledge, something he learned of only after the onslaught ceased and they had returned to Masen. And when he learned of her place in her society he was never more thankful that there was some good which had come of his father's decision to invade. Dwyer meant certain death for Isa regardless of what she believed.

"Is that why you did it?" she asked, her voice filled with a mix of hurt and anger. Fat tears trailed down her cheeks. "To spare me of my future because you thought it terrible?"

Eyes tight, he stared her down, unrepentant. "No."

The expression she held, like a flower wilting, ripped at his heart. Why had he told her a truth when, for so long, all he had done was keep it a secret?

"So I am merely a stolen treasure, then?"

Her words, sharp like daggers from her tongue, struck deep. She didn't see herself for what she was, a cast-away.

"Why did you spare me? Perhaps the myth of the lost treasure under the ruins of Lania are what you are after? Yes? My sternum is the key to the vault deep in the cave. Gut me now and the treasure is yours." She laughed loudly, the sound filled with mocking bitterness.

"Is it so wrong that I've spared you from death?"

When she shoved against him this time he let go. "It was mine and you took it away!" She took one and then two steps away.

A sharp pain rang along his jaw as he gnashed his teeth. His nostrils flared, the air burned in his lungs. "It sickens me that you would rather have been slaughtered by your own people as if you were meaningless. I won't ask forgiveness for sparing you that."

"You should have left me there." Her chin quivered as if she were trying to fight against the tears. "I would have been better off at the end of a lance!"

He stepped toward her quickly, lifting his hands, reaching for her. A voice of caution screamed at him. He found his hands clasping her cheeks instead.

Holding steady, he kept her from backing away further. Her eyes begged for him to let go. But she didn't raise a hand to him. A part of him actually wanted her to. It would make more sense if she did.

"Would it be better for you if I could say yes? Even if it were a lie would you feel justified?"

"Why didn't you strike me down?"

"Because I wanted you alive instead."

She wrapped her hands around his wrists. "Did you do it for wealth?" Her voice heavy with desperation.

"No." He was quick to answer, to deliver the truth with as much fervor as possible.

Her chin quivered and her grip tightened. "I hate you." She said it, but there was little conviction behind her words.

"Do you?"

"You're grotesque."

"I know." His hands eased from her face and, resisting the urge to pull her to him, to shape his mouth on hers, he slid his fingertips down to the sweep of her neck. "But there's a part of you that doesn't care about any of that, isn't there?"

"Is there a part of you that doesn't care I'm a primitive beast?"

"I'm not sure."

"Then we feel the same." Isa dug her fingers into the thick of his wrists. "Why do you want me to be your courtesan and not your mistress?"

"I have no Queen." He smiled, brushing his fingertips over the curve of her collarbones. "Therefor . . . you cannot be my mistress."

Her expression fell strangely, mouth opened a sliver. "Why do you have no Queen?"

Edward's fingers relaxed, falling from her but not quite leaving the skin of her neck. "It's on my agenda."

"Liar," she scolded. "I've seen your agenda."

Slowly, an amused smile broke on her lips. She dropped her hands from his wrists, her eyes drifting to his mouth.

As she slipped her hands behind his neck, pulling him to her, her eyes fell closed. The soft sigh she gave was the spark that lit the fire. And now, all he wanted was to do whatever she asked. Please her in every way. He wanted her desperate and greedy. Begging, instructing. Whatever she wanted.

Her nails dug into the skin of his neck, deep and thrilling. He groaned into her mouth and hissed her name. Tugging at the trim of his vest, pushing him away, she guided him to the bed.

Without question, he was under her command and it thrilled him in ways he never thought possible. Sex, a near constant in his life, ventured to a new level with Isa, an intense and deep satisfaction he had never known before. Nights with ladies in the summer had not spilled so much sweat. He was determined not to have his full pleasure until she had hers.

He obeyed her hands, like ice and fire on his skin. Though painfully swollen, aching for release, he showed her how dutiful he could be.

He enjoyed the way pleasure showed so vividly in the dark flush of her cheeks. Everything he did was to stir that vivid color, darken it, make it rise.

He coaxed her, encouraging her to tell him what she wanted, what she needed. When she wouldn't speak, he explored her to find the things that would make her groan, cry out, and shudder inside. His mouth to her breast, his hands on her hips, his fingers to her sweet bud.

Seemingly lost in her another world, she arched her back and rocked herself against him. When she leaned away the sight of his shaft sliding into her, parting her cupid lips, glistening wet, forced him to grit his teeth, to hold back. Sweat ran in fire lit trails down her neck and over her shoulders. He wiped it away with his thumbs before grasping her hips. Holding her steady, he thrust upward, driving himself inside her so intensely the flesh of her breasts danced. She clung to him; face awash with pleasure, breath caught in her lungs, and shuddered through her release.

Only when she was spent did he give himself over to that lovely, sharp tang which came with his release. It built in the muscles of his thighs and caused his body to shudder, coming completely undone.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

* * *

The fire in the corner crackled and sparked, throwing a dancing light to the ceiling. Isa lay awake, a sharp pain running along her back from the position she was in. The King's arm around her middle, her hand trapped awkwardly underneath the pillow, neck angled too sharp.

The physical discomfort wasn't what kept her awake, however. On the other side of the door were busy feet, working hands, a sweating brow. Others were awake, relied on, yet invisible. Ever since a tray was dropped during their dinner she felt an antsy jitter in her fingers.

She watched the firelight for a while until it began to dim. With that, Isa was out of the bed and on her feet. Quietly as not to wake the King, she gathered a log in each hand and set them in place. One loud snap had the King turning in his sleep, his arm reaching out to the empty space where she had lain.

He did look rather peaceful. Secure in the night. Innocent in a way—his face calm. Perhaps it was the soft light, often making things seem less severe than they really were. Or the bedding he lay on, soft and plush, like angel fluff, setting him off with a cherub-like gentleness.

Scoffing, she padded to the bedside and stepped into her shoes. They were nice little cream things fit for royalty though she was nothing of the sort, not in this country's standards.

Perhaps her road really was all water. Water that cut its own path through a thick of rock like the winding Sev back home. Even now, though her life was upended, the Sev River surged and charged just beyond her razed home. The structure was a hand turned number. Her father had traveled into the forest with her brothers, Roben and Wheant, to fell the lumber for the beams. Now, it would never be rebuilt. Had the sun and water brought green? Had anyone come to bury the dead?

If she hadn't have seen the destruction with her own eyes before she was shoved inside a box she would never have believed it. Even now she had dreams of her family siting around the great table, plotting to rescue her, waiting for the right time at which to reign down justice in the form of sharp-tipped arrows and silent strikes in the night.

When she walked to the door to leave she noted the floor looked rather dull near the threshold. Her mood lightened knowing she had actual work to tend to, no dollhouse fantasies to play out, not for a while.

Though they had an agreement, she couldn't bring herself to abide by it fully. She needed something solid to hold onto. Chores, duty, daily business gave her peace.

ooo

Weeks passed before Isa had to deal with her place as the King's courtesan again. Sex? Yes. But everything else? No. She did not join him for meals or attempt to sleep with him again. She did not engage him in small talk or even make an effort to argue.

Carrying slop buckets to the swill water drain, Isa could feel the King's eyes on her through window of his room. She felt guilty, but she didn't. She missed him, but she didn't.

Perhaps it was possible that her heart had actually been severed in two. Half for the King, half for Isa. Which part loathed him? Which part craved him?

Whichever part that craved and needed him is what returned to her room to pack her borrowed belongings for the journey north. That part would accompany the King to Denali for Lord Aro's yearly gala.

While they were away her other half would have to be satisfied knowing that a set of candlesticks from her chambers would ensure that Angel had no need for stealing and injuring herself, or worse.

As a servant, Isa might have considered it theft and had resisted the temptation. As courtesan, with flexibility applied to the concept of 'what's mine is yours', they were then hers to do with as she pleased. What pleased her was to help her people out in any way possible. Candlelight wasn't needed to see the situation she was in, anyway. If her road was water she was already drowning in it.

ooo

The sound of horses trotting and heavy wheels turning was muddled by the layers of wood and fabric. The inside of the coach was luxurious, lined with crushed blue velvet. Blue seemed to be the King's favorite color, he adored all shades of it. But the beauty of his carriage didn't make the ride any more comfortable.

Isa clutched the edge of the seat to hold steady as the carriage jolted and bucked. Like a jumping bean over the heat, they bounced and rattled in their seats with every rut and pock. The padding under Isa's backside gave little cushion.

"The road smoothes out through the Purient Mountains."

The King sat across from Isa, relaxing against the side of the coach, his arm propped in the small window sill next to him, his thumb slowly tracing along his chin.

"Talk to me, Isa."

"It's been a while since I've seen mountains."

Isa looked out the window. The first throws of the Purient Mountains peeking between trunks and rocks, a purple gray.

They had left Masen Palace behind endless hours ago. Now, it was nearing dusk. Soon they would stop for a meal.

"Come." He patted the seat next to him, sending her heart into a stutter for a beat or two.

 _He wouldn't think of sex now . . . would he?_ His eyes, however, didn't look taken by lust. They looked taken by another emotion, one which Isa was unfamiliar with. She had seen him in mourning, celebration, and at his most basal moments, but this was different.

Slowly, she stepped forward, mindful of her heels and balance. The King shifted as she sat, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, her elbow tucked against his stomach. Being close to him—not cleaning, not caring for him, not being intimate—felt incredibly strange.

"Your hair is lovely." He ran his fingers through the curled locks that touched to her shoulder.

She closed her eyes, trying to let her mind shift and slip into awareness of the physical and nothing more. Slowly, he brushed the hair aside, bared her neck and kissed her softly. Her hands clenched in her lap while his hand traveled along the smooth of her skin, slowly, down to the crescent of her breasts. His fingertips teased and tickled.

"Dwyer or not, you are exquisite."

Her fingers clenched tighter to the rumple of fabric until her pulse drummed in her palms.

He slipped his hand underneath the trim of her bodice, seeking out the pert tip. It was impossible not to lean against him, giving over a small bit, relaxing her mind.

"Violet is lovely on you, but you'd look more delectable in red."

She chuckled a little. "Why is that?"

"Does that amuse you?" A smile in his voice.

"Things like colors are very different for you and me. Where I come from red is for death."

The wood of the seat creaked as he shifted, positioning himself so he could see her more clearly. She met his eyes.

"I would like to hear more of your people."

Anger, hot and harsh, sprang to life at the hypocritical request. She tried to keep her reply civil. "Please don't be offended, m'Lord, but I'd rather not."

It was difficult enough that she soiled her lineage by laying with the one who destroyed it all. Why was it that whenever she began to let go, to temporarily suspend her angst, he poked the embers and stirred the fire back to life? Was it intentional?

Rich, earthy air filled the carriage, the scoops and drapes of fabric swayed to and fro.

"Please call me by my given name," he said, a request she had ignored time and again.

Her body still tingled with emotional heat, but it was fading away with the sunlight in the distance. "King Edward of Masen."

With a sigh, he sat back, his cheeks drawn tight. He took her hands in his. "I would like to get to know you. Personally. No more servant. No more captor and captive."

Isa willed herself to at least see the sincerity in his eyes, the intensity in his voice. "You have my companionship. Is that not enough?"

"I want more than your physical companionship, Isa." He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her hair with a kiss.

"Perhaps," she mused softly as he lifted his hand to her cheek. "You should heed your holy doctrine and chasten yourself against the sin of lust."

"Is that so?"

"Yes." She grinned wide at the irritation in his eyes. "It's one of your commandments, is it not?"

With his mouth quirked with chagrin, he nodded. "There are many things my faith instructs of me that I do not do. What is it that your faith advises of you that you do not do?"

Ignoring his question, she continued, "Chastity might do you good."

Slowly, he leaned down to kiss her lips. "Chastity appears to be the one thing that I no longer have a say in." The pad of his thumb swept a line along her collarbone.

Then the driver clacked the reigns and the carriage came to a stop.

A delightful smile brought light to the King's face. He stood quickly and knocked three times on the wall of the coach. He took Isa's hand, and without waiting for the footman, he pushed the door aside. Frigid wind ripped into them.

"It's freezing." Isa tried to take her hand back. "What are you doing?"

"It will be warm soon."

Aggravated and not welcoming the cold, Isa hunched forward, wrapping her arms around herself, but still allowed him to pull her through the door. They exited on the rocky side of the narrow roadway. The mountain path was wide enough for the entourage to pass safely with little room otherwise. They were above the clouds like in a children's tale.

The King tugged her hand. "This way."

He led her down the roadway until they came to a cleft in the earth and rock wall. It cut into the mountainside like a gaping wound. Wind streaked through the crevice, harsh and bitter. When they rounded another wall everything opened to a vast expanse of nothing. Merely a stretch of sea with foaming waves far below, reaching on forever until it touched the sky.

Before Isa had a moment to collect her thoughts he pulled her along this new, narrow cliff side path. They rounded a slight outcropping of rock and came to a small building that stood precariously at the mountain's edge.

The face of the structure was stone and mortar, the curved front held a long window that stretched across like a mouth, but inside the structure was culled out from the mountain rock. Bands of fire crackled in long troughs on each side of the structure, lighting the stone walls with yellow and orange.

"This is the tower of Landover. There are scores of such places along the northern coast of Masen."

Isa walked to the window, unsure of the earth beneath her. How long had the structure stood here?

"You won't fall."

A thrill danced through her, stirred by his voice near to her ear. Cold wind kissed her cheeks but as his hands trailed over the curve of her spine, warmth took over.

"I love coming here, being away and alone. I've never brought anyone else here, though. You're the only."

Reaching out, she placed her hands on the chilled stone sill. Her body pulsed with excitement, that addictive beat.

"What kind of magic have you cast that draws me to you?" He kissed her neck, sending a shudder through her. "I can't sleep without seeing you in my dreams. When I dine alone all I want is your company."

As he spoke, her heart began to ache painfully, trying to reject his sentiment but wanting to embrace it all the same.

His hands trailed along her sides and over the round of her backside. He stroked her there until her legs quaked.

"Stop," she said firmly.

But he only tickled her with his fingertips. "Say, "Edward, please stop," and I'll stop."

She clenched her teeth. Her arms trembled. He was a bastard, going to such lengths to get her to say his name.

Leaning forward, his fingers still causing her to shake, he whispered in her ear. "My name. Say my name and I'll leave you be."

She let out a strangled cry of irritation. "Tyrant."

He chuckled darkly. "Sweet Isa."

She clenched tightly to the window ledge, now growing angry. "No games."

He held his fingers still and teased the skin of her neck with his mouth. She shifted, trying to rub against him, to push him like he was pushing her, but he shifted and moved away, keeping only the slightest of contact between his mouth, fingers, and her. Lightly, like being teased with feathers and gossamer, he stroked all along her sides and back. His breath heavy and quick, making soft sounds in the back of his throat that made her clench her eyes.

"I—" She groaned and pushed back against him in absolute frustration.

"Edward!" she gasped. "Now stop!"

He pulled her away from the window, down to the floor, so soft and full of care. Where was the tension that she so desperately relied on? When he moved to rest against her chest, she was suddenly wrapped in a cocoon of pleasant, sweet buoyant relief, and in reward she said his name again. For that, he kissed her madly.

ooo

They lay together for quite some time, his head resting against her, her hands in his hair. The view outside was nothing but the crisp blue and a fuzzy swirl of sky and cloud. Isa's mind wandered but found no precipice on which to perch; she only wafted, a feather on the breeze.

"The mountains back home were majestic, but not quite as skyward as these."

The King shifted, lifting his head from her, meeting her eyes through the valley of her breast. "Dwyer has mountains?"

A peal of laughter spilled from her. "Did you not know? Charming. We were seen as mere desert people, then?" Her eyes brimmed over, she wiped at her cheeks.

"If you had mountains then why did you live in the desert?"

"A grassy plain, m'Lord. Not a desert. Of course, you only saw it once, during drought... Your lands hold two mountain chains yet you live in the shallow land because it's more fertile."

If he did not know about all of Dwyer, land wise, then what else did he not know?

Her thoughts turned to the stories of their mountains. Home of the Gods, the Eternal Father Abdon and his son Kaleth. Though she knew being a Fianta and offering her life and soul to her people defined her as being a bride to Abdon, somewhere inside was now a seed of doubt. Without the eternal flames on the cliffs over Lania to light the night sky, her people seemed but a distant memory. Sand in the water. Surely if Abdon was real he would have plucked her from her knees long ago. Surely if any of the Dwyer were together in great number they would have sought her out and saved her.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

* * *

Isa had imagined the Keep in Denali would be a structure similar, and yet more magnanimous, to that of Masen. When they arrived she was taken aback. It wasn't a lofty structure of bright gray and shining white, banners whipping from the towers. It was heavy, thick, bold, and dark. Stout but still lovely.

The stone was auburn with a touch of glittering crystal that caught the sun. The whole of the Keep seemed to grow from the cliff on which it was built and far below was a torrent of waterfalls. A bridge joined the castle's plot of land with the near side of the river, towering high like a mortar and stone crescent.

"You've said nothing since I asked you my favor." The King's voice was mindful.

Isa sat back from the coach window. The sound of the horse's hooves deepened as they crossed through the final gate and into the courtyard.

"Only while we're abroad?"

He looked away briefly, the carriage bucking to a stop. "Yes. Only while we're abroad."

She reached for his hand to get him to look at her one last time before the door opened. "What would it mean for you?"

"It would make things feel more comfortable."

There was more to it, she was certain, but didn't press the subject as footsteps were approaching. "Very well, King Edward of Masen. I'll call you my love only when in the presence of others."

A smile he likely meant to hide broke free just as the driver knocked lightly. A moment later, the King and Isa stepped from the coach—her hand clutching the crook of his arm—onto foreign soil. Now twice removed from her homeland.

The air further north in Denali smelled so much sweeter, crisp and fragrant, than that of Masen or even the mountains of her home. The waterfalls roared in the distance, sweeping away any foul odors with it, leaving only floral and fruit behind.

Isa was further taken in surprise by the sheer number of people who filled the courtyard. Not a spot of earth could be seen between their bodies. Face after face with bright, beaming eyes and grins on both old and young. It was a far cry from the crinkled noses of disapproval she had grown accustomed to. She couldn't help but smile in return.

People were met, introductions had, mostly names to be promptly forgotten. As they made their way to the Keep, it's bold facade dark yet shimmering in the sun, Isa worried over what would be expected of her. Dollhouse, she reminded herself, dollhouse.

There was no time to ease into events. With the sun at its highest peak in the sky the Piassa don Lamicht commenced.

While the outside of the Keep held an almost threatening boldness, the inside was quite the opposite: magnificent. The ceilings were polished to a high shine. Cherubs and ladies of the lake were sculpted along panels and doors. Along the walls trellises of greenery, trees, flowers, and waterfalls trickled and sprang. It was as if the most unique flora of some far off jungle were all brought here. Isa couldn't quite tell her up from her down. She walked with her head craned, taking it all in. The most exquisite piece was a tree, far overhead, its branches sweeping yellow windows set in the ceiling.

Directly, they were invited to mingle with palace guests and residents. Tables piled with delicacies of strange flavors lined the foyer. Nothing was contained in singular rooms or restrained. The front door, though mid-winter, was left open. Even commoners were permitted indoors.

The King, with Isa at his side, had no desire to mingle with the masses. At first chance he took up two glasses of a light colored wine and requested he and Isa be ushered to their rooms. The young boy who led them carried himself with such confidence Isa fancied his age was merely an illusion.

Their guest chamber was down what could best described as the brown ocean hall. There was a delicate wave-like pattern painted along the walls. Brown frothy waves over pale blue.

With her wine in hand, Isa toured about their room. It was thrilling, really, the bright colors they favored for decor, the grand window, curtains pulled aside. Everything was so fanciful yet brilliantly lit. And in the distance, mist rose from the waterfalls.

The first sip of her wine met her tongue and she held the glass up in surprise. "It . . . tickles."

Open and loud, the King laughed, sipping his own. He had barely taken a few steps into the room. "They call it Sekt."

Lifting the glass to the light, she watched at small dots of fizzy cream clung to the glass and then slowly trailed upward. "Strange." When she looked at him, her cheeks lifting with a smile, he looked at her in a way that tamped her spirits a little.

"What's wrong?"

Brow furrow, his face now tense and troubled, he shook his head and occupied himself with another sip.

Here's where Sue's advice to, "Offer up a listening ear. He expects you to be something of a friend," did not come easily. It was one thing for her to follow her father's advice, but now with something clearly on the King's mind, she couldn't bring herself to follow Sue's. Feeling uneasy, Isa turned away and watched the people come and go freely through the gate in the distance.

"It's pleasant haven't you here with me," he said as he walked through the room.

Sipping more of the strange wine, she turned. He stood by the fireplace now. It was a grand feature that occupied the half of one wall, its hearth made of the same stone that was outside the Keep. Two plush chairs with a small table between them occupied the space. He took up a skewer from the pit rack nearby and poked needlessly, watching as a shower of sparks floated up.

Isa crossed the room, glass now empty, her body warmed by the drink. Her head swam a little. Whatever it was they served was quite a bit more potent than the drink they favored in Masen.

When he racked the skewer and looked to her, the way his eyes fell on hers made her stomach flutter nervously. She set the empty glass on the table and immediately he reached for her, taking her by the hand.

The way he kissed her, gripping her so tightly her body ached, was far more passionate than days ago at the sea viewport. Whatever it was that disturbed him, he sought solace in her for it and she gave it freely.

ooo

Come the afternoon, a band of ushers knocked on chamber doors, collecting the guests to attend the Performat von Lich.

Isa, with the King at her side, trailed behind members of their company. Her arm through his, they traveled through a maze of mirrored halls and decorated through-ways. An alcove here and there hinted at privacy where Isa fancied the ways they could best spend the time. But soon they arrived at a room so vast and expansive that the ceiling was a sheet of darkness, a few streams of glittering light poured down. Tiers of shell shaped alcoves lined the walls. Each one populated with a table, sized for a handful of patrons, giving a private place to watch the performance on stage.

"Are you alright?" the King whispered, his hand lifting hers for a kiss.

"Yes." She smiled, cheeks alight, eyes upward.

Wine and food was served: meats of all sorts heavy with juice, steam billowed from the cracked top of sweet rolls.

Music, haunting and bold from strange instruments Isa had never heard before, filled the room. Dancers, scores of tall and slender females took charge of the stage. They wore only a fluffy plume for a skirt, their tops skintight, the fabric hue matched their lighter skin tone so well it looked as if they were naked.

Isa leaned toward the King, her eyes fixed on the living flower that unfolded while their hands were bound with silken ribbons. "What's it called?"

"A ballet."

One dancer took to the air with such strength she leapt higher than the reach of her partner's arms. "Ballet?"

The King reached across the table, sliding aside her untouched wine, and took her hand in his. "It's a dance of poise, of grace . . . . Control."

And that last word, the way it resonated in his throat before reaching her ears, made her suddenly wish the dance would end so that they could be alone.

But the night didn't end after the performance. They were ushered to a dining hall for yet another meal. More food, more wine, more piping hot delicacies.

For Isa, the second glass of wine might have been a bit too much. Her hand shook as she set it on the table, a small bit spilled over the edge. She looked around, hoping no one had noticed. None had, save for Lord Aro who sat several seats down from her. He recognized her blunder with a slight smile that caused his cheeks to lift and his eyes to crinkle.

"Lady Isa." He lifted his glass and tipped it to her before taking a sip. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Yes, thank you." She felt a bit like being in the bottom of a long tube. When she spoke, a stifled silence fell across the table.

"Tell me, then. Where is it that you're from?"

Next to her, the King stiffened. He slipped his hand around her back. "She's from the South Land." Looking to her, he smiled, but it didn't touch his eyes. She recognized that look from earlier in the day, by the fire. It was the look of concealing a troubled mind.

Lord Aro ignored the King and directed another question to Isa. "Which part of the South Land?"

She could have easily said Dwyer, the name for the whole of the nation, but she gave him the name of her family's Divan instead, "Yeoloma," and then brought the glass to her lips again.

Aro's brow rose in response. "O'Mailley or Carmody?"

Her throat, almost too tight to swallow, caused her to choke on the sip of wine she had drunk to quell her unease. O'Mailley. Her family name. Hearing it spoken sent an eerie chill, like spider's legs, along her back. Upon being taken, the King's father attempted to coax it from her. None of his efforts had drawn her last name from her lips. She had welcomed the threat of death then, determined to take her full name to her grave. An invading tyrant wouldn't take it all.

After fixing a smile to her mouth she wrestled with what to actually say. A lie? Claim she was of Carmody descent or another, random clan such as the Demiah?

Or the tSue and claim her family title, breaking her promise to herself?

This emotional conundrum troubled her as she sat, staring into Lord Aro's patient eyes. Would telling the enemy of her enemy mean she was telling a friend? The desire to no longer hide and abandon her family's memory compelled her to tell the truth.

"O'Mailley."

The King shifted near her, touching her in some way, but she paid little attention.

"I know of the events that unfolded under the rule of King Brisbane of Masen. How is it, then, that one lovely Isa O'Mailley from the Yeoloma caught Edward Masen's eye?"

Heavy and dark thoughts crept into Isa's mind, things she hadn't visited in a while, memories she'd rather forget. The last days at home, that last night, so routine and simple, no hint of horror rising.

"Strange things have a way of happening." Her voice, unsteady, betrayed her heart.

"My father," the King spoke up. "Was intent on laying waste to all of Dwyer, including Isa's family. I convinced him to spare her and cease the raid."

Assuredly, the open gape of her mouth expressed Isa's intense disbelief. The spiders chased more quickly over her skin. This was the first time she had heard any such thing. The half of her which was filled with doubt and malice had stayed behind in Masen until this moment, now it resurfaced, shouting at her that he was filled with lies. Isa couldn't decide if it was a tSue and worthy of her heart, or a painful lie told to only establish good rapport. The King's expression was that of factual honesty, but there was still a tightness there.

Lord Aro raised his glass. "To King Edward, then, and his kind heart."

The King's hand fell low on Isa's back, underneath the braid of her hair.

"Yes, a kind heart, my love." Isa gave him a genuine smile, silencing the voice inside which screamed it was a falsehood.

Another Lord further down the table interrupted the moment. "While I can appreciate Lord Aro's approval of finer things, I'd much rather we discuss the matter at hand without grand dela—"

"Never mind Lord Caius," Lord Aro said, his eyes fixed on Isa's. "He always seems intent on living up to his name."

There were muffled laughs all around.

"Regardless." Lord Caius stood, cutlery at his fingertips. "I will not sit here all night delving out niceties when none hold water."

The King took his hand from Isa and leaned forward in his chair, rolling the stem of his glass between his fingers. "I take it the governments of Denali have come to a decision?"

"We have," another Lord spoke. He was older, a much deeper voice with a strange accent. Almost gritty and gnarled, perhaps with age.

"I know," the King continued with calm assertiveness, "that in the past my father's efforts have driven a wedge between our nations. After his untimely death, I became determined to strengthen the Kingdom of Masen without driving that wedge in further. Strengthening with peaceful efforts which will benefit all of our people."

"How touching," Lord Caius snarled. "My heart goes pitter pat."

The bitterness in his tone drew no response from the King.

"You're young, new to the throne." Frost jabbed his finger to the tablecloth, silverware clattered. "You seem to forget that not too long ago your father, and his father before him, waged significant efforts against the people of Denali. Thousands slaughtered. The spot you were born and raised on belongs to us.

"I'll be damned if I sign the paper that permits you to simply saddle in the back door while the front door still smolders."

Isa cared not for the matter of the Pillary Proposal, but it was a wicked thrill to hear someone speak to the King with something other than abject respect.

Aro pushed up from his chair, hands steeled against the table. "Lord Caius, calm yourself." His eyes turned to Isa as he sat. Then he looked to the King, his wizened eyes heavyset but resolute. "It seems both governments have come to the same agreement. Neither the First nor the Second have any intention of honoring your request in any fashion."

Without a further word, Frost, along with a number of other Lords, left the table and were soon through the door. Their footsteps swallowed by the dark stone hall.

"And the Deciding Council?" the King asked. "Whom I note is not represented here tonight. What have they decided?"

Chortling, Lord Aro leaned back in his seat, adjusting his woolen garment unnecessarily. "The Deciding Council doesn't deal with such matters. They have more important things to concern themselves with than the trite requests of a young fellow who's recently taken to a throne."

Silence fell for a moment.

"However," Lord Aro added on thoughtfully. "It's not as though the concept holds no merit. If, let's say, you were willing to cede to us full control of details and arrangements then perhaps we might reconsider."

Up until that moment Isa had not understood the difference between the people of Denali and Masen. Instead of a King, they had two governing bodies. Instead of seeing her as a member of the opposition, they saw her as someone worthy of a cordial respect.

She came expecting another dollhouse game and instead her mind was put in motion.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

* * *

A servant from Denali carried an armload of logs into the room. He was so small and slight it seemed cruel to assign him such a task.

"Here, let me." Isa offered, mindless of the finer threads she wore.

"Oh, no m'Lady, you don't need . . . to . . ." he stumbled over his words awkwardly as she took the logs from his hands.

And though this boy wore green and white and was half the size, there was something about his slenderness and the set of his eyes that made Isa think of the poor boy Thomas. The one who was killed for punishment of attempting to poison the King. A sour, sore spot—evidence that the King which she felt more and more drawn to was still a King.

Isa reached for the wood bundle. Footsteps came behind them. "Croy is capable of feeding the fire."

Ignoring the King's assertion, Isa gathered the bundle and carried it to the fireplace. She was able to feed the fireplace, too. Kneeling at the hearth, knowing his disapproving eyes were on her, she took her time arranging the logs in the embers.

After stoking the fire it whistled and crackled to life again, filling the massive fireplace with bright flames. The heat radiated even from a distance of thirty steps. Isa walked to the window, appreciating the way the fading pink sunlight kissed the scant clouds.

Croy situated the excess of logs in the corner and bowed before leaving. Isa gave a small wave in return.

"You're taking up rags and firewood at every opportunity. Is it so hard to return to a more delicate life?"

"Now the life of a primitive barbarian is a dainty affair?" She dared not take her eyes off the last of the sun as it disappeared. "I suppose my cloth-loin upbringing has taught me to thrive in the muck."

"As I recall, you were wearing far finer clothes than a few mere deerskin scraps when I found you."

"Yes, I heard you were coming to slaughter a whole village and ran to put on my Sunday's best."

"Stop. I'm in no mood tonight."

"You don't mind."

These things felt good to say, almost rewarding, but in the glaze of the window Isa could see him sit on the edge of the bed. He untied his vest and let it slip from his shoulders. The thin, white fabric underneath clung to his form, reminding her of all the many things that were good about this arrangement between them.

When she turned, he cracked a smile. Some sort of dark magic must have been at play. It drew them together again and again. It only felt right to walk to him, slip out of her shoes, and climb on the bed behind him.

"Was it truth you spoke tonight?" she asked, rubbing her thumbs along the broad of his shoulders.

"What was? Asking my father to spare you? It was."

Isa said nothing, half of her believing, the other half not.

"My father would have had more success than I when it came to such matters . . . with Denali, that is."

Her hands stilled when her father's advice came to her again, _when your enemy is angry, listen well._ It brought her inquisitive defiance to the surface.

"Your plan is to push north then?"

He turned his face to the side, catching sight of her from the corner of his eye. "What do you mean?"

"Through the Pillary Proposal."

He stilled, eyes still on her. "My father would have."

"And you're not pursuing things in such a way?"

He reached back to take her hands and wrap them around his middle. She leaned into him, her chin coming to rest on his shoulder.

"Conquest? In the past I was as hungry for it as he was."

"But you still want to expand the borders of Masen?"

He stood abruptly, leaving Isa sprawling to save herself a fall, and stalked to the window. "I offered them a plan to forge the largest pillary north of the End Sea. A majority of the profits—" He ground his teeth together, his chest heaved with angry breath. "And Aro insults me by fixing his eyes on you."

She sat back on her heels, unsure of how to take his words. "It was mere commonplace flattery. Nothing more."

"He wants you."

"Competition then?"

The thought made her laugh, which only made his mouth twist in revulsion.

This feral jealousy of his excited her. Would he fight over her like a rabid hound? His furious expression fell and vulnerability came through. Hands behind his back, he walked this way and that until he was by the bed again. One hand found its way to her side. He held it there, barely touching, for a moment.

"One thing I won't stand for is for him set his teeth into you to spite me."

"But aren't I your fire?"

A brief expression of misery flashed across his face. "I don't know what part of me finds your venom to be so exhilarating. I saw a girl, beautiful and deadly, intent on running me through, and she stole my breath and made my blood race." He brought his hand to her stomach and slid it down, fingertips grazing the clothed cleft between her thighs. "Instead of containing that fire you carried and keeping it for myself, I smothered it . . . ."

Quickly, Isa crushed her mouth to his, trying to ease the sourness she felt inside with a passion fueled kiss. Her pulse pounded. All she could taste was wine and him. Liquid, without thought, one effort flowed easily into the next.

And when he cried out her name she delighted in the sound. But this time when Isa reached her peak, she refused to say his.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

* * *

Isa's heart ached for her family as she watched the ladies and their gentlemen pulse across the floor to the symphony's melody. Her memories were of far different dances, ones where the men did not dance with the women. Ones where the Gibants, the old mothers, danced together with flaming sticks.

In Denali there was a darker quality to it all. No one smiled for several of the dances and the structure was by far more rigid. Preparing for a battle rather than enjoying their selves. Nothing like the ballet.

The King smiled and stepped close, waving out over the dance floor, cupping her waist with his other hand. "How about we have a go at their bold dancing."

Isa came into the moment. In a dim corner of her mind Melaine as Gibant wove a flaming circle through the air.

"It is different, certainly."

He pulled her close. "How so?"

"I've seen your people dance before," Lord Aro interrupted, startling Isa. "Very natural, elemental."

"You've been to Dwyer?" Her heart clenched. Though still in the King's embrace, she felt out of balance, as if Aro's presence caused the air around her to tremor.

"In my youth we held cordial relations with the people of Dwyer, west of Yeoloma."

Now he had her full attention. He knew all of Dwyer, not the Masen version of Dwyer which ended at the Divide. Grinning, Isa set her eyes on the crowd with a different mind. More and more, the people, the whole of Denali, was gaining favor with her.

"The same can't be said for everyone, of course." A none-too-veiled insult toward the King.

The King's arm tightened around her, slyly possessive. "You look tired, love. Would you like to adjourn?"

"Tired?" Lord Aro said. "She looks awake enough to liven up the dead. Perhaps you would like to learn our style of dance instead?" He stepped forward, hold a hand out for Isa to take.

Knowing it might rub the King's sensitive feelings, finding a thrill in doing so but also intrigued by learning the dance, Isa took his proffered hand. A strange excitement came over her. Here she was, touching the hand of a man other than the King for the first time.

She gave a smile only for a the King to see and he stared back, expressionless. Aro walked her to the rush of brightly clothed bodies and held her in his arms before sweeping her into the fray.

The dance, though it appeared quite complex to the observer, consisted of only a few steps which were repeated, switching person to person.

"You've been to Dwyer? Recently?" Her voice pitched with hope.

He shook his head no, and then presented her hand to a young lady nearby. Smiling, they both laughed as Isa stumbled. After a moment's beat, Isa was handed back to Aro.

"I was surprised to learn that the Masen knowledge of the world does not include all of Dwyer."

He laughed full-heartedly. "Yes. Masen's knowledge of the world's people is a bit . . . narrow."

"Narrow indeed."

The next hand-off was to a young woman dressed in mauve, and it was in that moment when Isa looked to her right and caught sight of the King. He was deep in conversation with a young Lady dressed in green. The girl's eyes lit up when she smiled and reached for his hand, clasping it warmly. Far more warmly than Isa was comfortable with. Distracted, Isa found it nearly impossible to concentrate on footing and hand holds.

Then, trying to execute a hand off from the girl in mauve back to Aro, she toppled sidelong into the person nearest to her.

"Ict alba neunz," a deep male voice with a heavy accent mused as he spared her from a fall.

She looked toward the King still rapt in conversation with the woman in green, and then up at the man whose hands were still braced against her shoulders. Wide set sharp eyes, wavy brown hair, a nose with a pronounced bridge, darker skin.

She gasped, no longer following the steps as she should. The man before her was the spitting image of Essica, only more masculine.

"I'm sorry." She shook her head, eyes still wide, "You look like someone I know."

He placed an arm around her waist and held her hand, guiding her through the next step.

Breaking away from the proper steps, he twirled her about. From the corner of her eye Isa caught sight of the King watching her, standing alone.

"How is Demué?"

"We call her Essica," she said as he pulled her to. "She's well." Scowling, Isa tried to recall any other details to give, but there were few. "She's a good cook."

They changed partners for a minute and then returned to each other.

His smile had grown tight. "When do you think you'll see her again?"

"When I return."

"Give her a message for me. Tell her I said hello and that Parson's Hat says hello as well."

"Why is it I haven't heard of you?"

"My sister did not approve at first of my marriage to the Lady Quinnet. An arrangement that was beneficial for all." Then, with a smile and a flourish, he passed her hand to the next person's, a Lady in violet, and bowed before stepping away.

Isa followed him, breathless, worn thin, and confused. A swish of white, a streak of black. He was gone.

Her mind kept spinning even though her feet had stopped. Slowly, she made her way through the throng of patrons but once she cleared the floor it wasn't the King who greeted her with an outstretched hand. It was Lord Aro.

"You dance wonderfully. I enjoyed watching you."

Isa looked about, trying to catch sight of Essica's brother or the King. Instead, she met the eyes of the Lady in green. The returned gazed was so unnerving it made Isa look away. Aro offered her a drink which she took but didn't sip. "The Lady that the King was speaking with, do you know who she is? The Lady in green."

Nodding, he sipped his wine. "Yes. The sister of Stuart von Essen, the Quartenant."

Isa's eyebrows lifted strangely, expressing her full confusion.

"Does that upset you?"

Shaking her head she rearranged her expression to be more passive, less telling. Secret messages and subtle appearances, mystery siblings and this sense that everything was spinning without her. She wanted to pull back and hold things down.

"Denali's land is divided into Quarters," Lord Aro explained as he cupped her elbow and led her away from the dance floor. "There are four Quarters to a Hepaquarter. The governments assigns two Lords..."

Now they were exiting the dance hall to a small courtyard, florals and vines climbed the high walls that barricaded them in.

"...they are assigned as Quartenants."

She nodded in understanding, though her mind was busy trying to fit together the puzzle of what might be really going on. Essica, and a brother, and a message? How was it that Essica came to be in the service of Masen while her brother married into a family as royalty? And he had recognized her. Had they met before?

"Here we are."

Isa looked up, realizing they had walked a long way. Surrounded by green, a bench sat between two trees.

Lord Aro motioned to the seat. As Isa sat, he remained standing, leaning against the gnarled trunk of a tree. "Tell me, Lady O'Mailley." He watched the last of his wine swirl about. "How much do you know of King Brisbane?"

She exhaled in thought, her breath escaping in a cold wisp. Thankfully, the dancing had warmed her considerably. "Nothing. I have no regard for him . . . at all."

His head tilted, his expression guarded. "Is that unhappiness I hear?"

"Assuredness."

A smile flashed briefly. "I see." He swallowed the last of his drink. "Does that dissatisfaction extend to the King as well?"

"Yours certainly does."

She crossed her feet at the ankles, thankful that the plume of dress was thick enough for her to hide her hands in, rubbing the sweat from her palms without being seen. "For what reason did you bring me out here alone, Lord Aro?"

"You are rather direct."

"I imagine you're a man who would appreciate directness."

"How well does that sit with your Edward?" His cheeks lifted with a beaming smile. "Last I met with him he said nothing of having a stout female such as you by his side. Rose was so quiet and soft-spoken."

She pursed her lips, wary of this line of questioning which made her think to the King the night before, his dissatisfaction with Lord Aro's interest in her.

"The King and I have developed a very satisfying relationship." Her tone, she hoped, shut the door on further scrutiny. She might have dire thoughts toward the King, but that was not the concern of an abject stranger.

"Indeed we have," the King spoke from several yards away.

Relief flooded through Isa upon hearing his voice. Cheeks flushed, she stepped to him, offering her hand, nodding to Lord Aro as they turned to leave.

"It was wonderful to speak with you, Isa," Lord Aro called out. "We'll talk again soon."

The King hastily walked her through the ambulatory around the outside of the dance hall.

"Aro—" he started to say when they neared the main stairway of the Keep. "What is it that he wanted to speak to you about?"

Their footsteps echoed loudly when they passed from the carpet lined hall into the main foyer.

They graced up the stairs, stopping off along the stonework and flora. The gurgling waterfall carried with it a sweet tangy scent. Citrus?

She followed a vein of green in the carved railing with her fingers. "What stone is this?"

"What did he speak to you about?" He was breathless, his voice agitated.

"If he had a point he didn't get there before you came."

Sighing, his shoulders fell a little. "I don't trust him. Not with you."

Madly, he pulled her close for a kiss before she was able to respond. When his hand began to ruffle her skirt, exposing her calf, she tried to push him away.

"We can't."

His grip tightened on her thigh. His eyes searched hers. "Let me."

Underneath the swarm of confusion and soured emotions, down deep and in that place where she wanted to feel absolutely nothing, she felt a wretched sense surge upward.

Guilt.

Thick, bold, blatant guilt.

If he had truly stepped forward to spare her life that means he defied his father . . . all for her. And yet she still continued to create division and entertain ill thoughts.

The guilt drove her to take his hand and pull him up, kissing him as his lips brushed near to her mouth.

Pulling her close, their arms twisting and tangling, he walked back, taking her underneath a stone ledge, behind a stash of shrubs. She kissed and touched, drinking him in until her eyes stung. Spinning her around, he led her to a bench so low to the floor they would completely hidden from view. And again she wanted to refuse, to push him away and take control, search for a reason to be angry, dominating, demanding. But the guilt kept her from it.

Puzzlement: Essica, the brother, the message, Aro. So much was going on outside of her awareness and knowledge. It clumped together, a cloud in her mind.

Crawling his fingers up the fabric of her dress, the King slowly worked the ruffles upward, until cool air met her legs. She reached for the ties on his shoulders, but he pushed her away, one hand on her stomach, the other still working to expose the length of her thighs.

She sat back on the bench, allowing him to pull free her bloomers. Once they were around her ankles he spread wide her legs, kissing her inner thighs as he went. And there was something so horrendously delightful about it all, the King of thousands on his knees in front of her, moaning softly like a common whore as he kissed higher and higher. He wanted to touch her there, to kiss her there, to be on his hands and knees for her.

And she loved watching him do it.

Isa held herself up by her elbows, spreading her thighs even wider, thrusting her hips to urge him closer. Inside, she felt that same driving pull of that first time together, the one that propelled her forward and forward again as she ripped at his clothes. Only, when she felt it this time it was without anger, without frustration. It was pure excitement.

"Sweet God."

Her arms began to quiver, she forced herself to stay upright. She needed to see him servicing her in this way more than anything.

Then, finally, his mouth met that sweet place. Far unlike his erection deep inside, the feel of his skin sliding against hers, his tongue was rough, broad. The sensation was divine, pure bliss. He bit lightly at her sweet bud which sent a violent pulse through her, down to her toes, up through her chest. Her muscles twitched uncontrollably, so intense she almost told him to stop.

She couldn't hold herself up much longer.

His fingers slipped inside as he continued to nibble and suck. The conflicting sensations, being filled with his fingers while the pulses continued to jolt through her, lightning sharp, had her moaning aloud.

While he stroked and she melted across the bench, eyes closed, she felt a shift in the air. A slight breeze. A shadow crossed over the light.

The King dug his fingers into her thigh, biting lightly. Her eyes flew open, vision pulsing with red. Movement. They were not alone. Someone stood watching, barely visible on the other side of the trees. All she could see was a sliver of nose and eye.

The King on his knees, someone bearing witness, it sent an intoxicating rush through her. With a cry, her orgasm bloomed so intense it took her breath away.

But she didn't care. Too far gone, drunk on pleasure, she didn't mind at all.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

* * *

The noise of the festivities for the Piassa don Lemicht carried on outside, adding to the ache. All of it kept her head steadily pounding, pounding, pounding.

While the King slept in the bed nearby, Isa paced the rug that stretched across the room, turning over the many things that kept her awake. Everything that had unfolded, it piled up in strange ways. She found herself listing it out over and over to try to remember it all.

A gilded tray piled with remnants of their mid-day meal sat at the desk. Isa nibbled a pastry, thinking as she ate, trying to put her mind into some sort of order.

The matter of Essica's brother would have to wait. There were no answers here. It would be days before Isa and the King would return to Masen. Aro was a curiosity, but secondary to the matter of Essica's brother. What did he want?

Shadows passed by the chamber door. Isa darted to, hastily pulling it open. A young man carrying a jug of oil to fill lanterns was near.

"Tell me," she said, catching his attention. "Do you know of a Quinnet? Or a Chalaih? Very tall, not from Denali?"

"Yes m'Lady."

"Is he staying in the Keep?"

"Yes m'Lady."

Isa stepped through the door, letting the knob click into place. "Take me to him."

He hesitated for a moment before quietly leading her through the dim corridors, down the main stairwell, up the other side. After rounding one corner Isa looked out through the windows. From here, she could see the wing in which the King still slept, glowing a faint yellow from the windows. Hopefully he would not wake while she was gone.

The hall the servant led her to was similar to the others of the Keep save for a series of statues set into alcoves. Each one the same figures of a female, crafted of marble, her arms extended overhead to brace a sculpted pillar.

"Erhaben." It wasn't Essica's brother who spoke, it was Lord Aro. His height seeming more impressive now that he was surrounded by shadowy sculptures. "Saint Erhaben."

Isa looked around for the servant, but he was gone. She bowed her head to Aro in a minimal gesture of respect.

"Apologies Lord Aro, but I was seeking out someone else."

"I had a feeling you might." He stepped forward, one hand reaching for her shoulder, the other inviting her into a doorway nearby.

Feeling a slight bit wary, Isa looked past him, into the room beyond. Brightly lit with a score of oil lanterns, a fire roaring. It wasn't a dungeon, only a room, so why the eerie feeling under her skin?

"Let's talk in more homely surroundings. We can even leave the door open."

Steeling herself, she entered, he was the Lord of this Keep after all and, yes, she would leave the door—and thus her options—open.

"Are you enjoying your stay here in Denali?"

She smiled, nodding politely, following a few steps behind him. "I am. Denali is quite pleasant."

"Good thing. Very good to hear."

Lord Aro's room felt more quaint than the gaudy expanse of the hallways, but still considerably more opulent than Masen. Denali on a whole was drawn to fanciful things: ballets, grand feasts, and nearly every inch inside was decorated with burgundy, ivory, gold.

"Who was it that you were seeking out?" he asked, taking her hand in a gesture easily seen as being cordial, a friendly clasp. The way he ran his fingers over her knuckles caused her to take her hand back.

With a move which she hoped to disguise as interest for the bubbling wine, Isa crossed to the buffet along the far wall. "Tell me, since I'm here." Tart sweetness filled the air as she poured. "What was it on your mind in the garden the other night? It was evident you wished to speak to me, but we were interrupted."

She offered the glass, sipping hers lightly. He took his but only held it.

"When I first heard of your captivity with the King of Masen I wasn't too surprised. It's not unheard of for people of his ilk to take others in such a way." He crossed the room and sat in his own fireside chair. Stretching one arm over the plush seat back, he brought the drink to his lips, but again did not sip. "I was, however, surprised when he came here with you on his arm. His courtesan."

She pursed her lips in thought, trailing one finger mindlessly over the trim of the buffet. "By taking the offer to be his courtesan I was better able to help those who were important to me."

At that, he laughed. "It was a choice?"

Her mouth fell a little but she quickly collected her expression. "Yes."

"Then it's not that you had no choice, it's that you said yes."

"He promised to provide more comfortable bedding, new clothes and shoes, and other affections to the servants at Masen Palace."

"It was only," he continued, speaking slowly as if to think through his words, "to help those who have come to mean something to you?"

Silence fell. Aro met her eyes with a doleful gaze. "I hope, for your sake, he is an attentive lover."

Isa shied away inside. She wasn't going to divulge her whole dark heart and skewed affections to a man she barely knew. "Why is the nature of our arrangement a curiosity to you?"

He waved it off. "My home is always open to you. As you might have gathered I am not fond of the past actions of his father." He swirled the wine, watching as the slight froth collected along the edge. "But there is another matter. I actually wanted to speak with you about matters of politics. My governments makes it difficult to maneuver through the political world, but not impossible. I have some menial input into their final decisions on many things." He paused to take a sip. "Are you aware of the King's Pillary Proposal?"

Isa nodded, groaning a bit inside. When she left her room it was with the intention of finding Essica's brother and soothing curiosity, not getting drawn into political affairs of two foreign nations.

"How much of it are you aware of?"

"He's spoken of it as an effort to move past where the nations of Masen and Denali are."

"Move past? In what way?"

"Into something more amicable."

One eyebrow rose in interest. "Amicable?" He took a deep breath and held it for a moment. "I would like to arrange a private meeting between the King and I in this regard." He hung onto his words as if they were full of obvious suggestion, a suggestion Isa couldn't quite grasp.

"And . . . You want me to arrange this?"

He smiled wide, eyes hopeful. "Yes."

"He's here now," she said, looking at her upturned reflection in the curve of the wineglass. "Why aren't you able to speak to on your own? This is your Keep."

"He's already declined. We're not on the best of terms."

Isa held out one hand, cupping nothing, unsure of how to address the matter. "However much I'd love to help I simply can't. He wouldn't be pleased if he learned I had engaged you in any such conversation. I believe even if you only asked me about the weather it would quirk his brow."

The look of surprise on Aro's face seemed forced, as if he knew her predicament. "Nevertheless. It seems we have little time for it now. You are leaving in but a few day's time. I had considered traveling into Masen to address other matters of concern. Perhaps I will save it for then."

"You're traveling to the Palace?"

"Possibly. We've dismissed the matter of the Pillary Proposal but, as you witnessed at our dinner together, many are of two minds regarding his marriage to Lady Tanya."

Isa's heart took off in a gallop, her skin turned cold. That's what was on the King's mind, eating away at him. That's what they had discussed over dinner, in front of her. Why had she assumed they were addressing the Proposal? It was all so obvious now! She felt the utter fool, Angel had even spoken the tSue and Isa had brushed it off as a nothing rumor

Isa hoped to conceal her sudden wave of teeth-gnashing bitterness by tipping her glass to drain the last of the wine. "Thank you for the late night conversation, Lord Aro. It's been enlightening."

She headed for the door, the pain in her temple pulsing, her cheeks and tongue curling with the sour of disgust.

"Oh . . . Isa, my sweet."

She stopped short, one hand on the cusp of the doorframe, but she didn't turn to face him.

"If we don't talk again before you and yours depart then know that, if you need me, I'll be here. My door always open to you."

Nostrils flaring, fuming with pure anger, she left Lord Aro's chambers. The King only had her around as a side-interest until he married. Of course he did! The very thought made her feel as if her back truly had a blade run through it.

The part of her—the half still bound in chains and denied water, that deep twisted part which loathed him—reveled in this fact. The part that cared for him lay strangely quiet, not a peep of reason, not a sliver of compassion. No sound argument in her mind for the King who was only following the drivel-laden rules of what King's do.

It took far less time for her to find her way back to their room. Their room! Her steps echoed full and loud, and by the time she made it to the door she was drenched in clammy sweat. When she threw the door open, expecting to see her arrogant and oblivious Liege sleeping in the plush bed, she found the room empty.

She wanted to scream out her frustration and claw her heart into the wall.

Food still sat on the desk nearby. Wine, she needed wine. Isa took no more than two steps in that direction when the curtain to the balcony was flung aside. The King entered, a Lady in green by his side, clinging to his arm. Isa wanted to spit fire, singe the silk right off her green bodice and watch it melt to her skin while she screamed in agony.

Tanya the Scold.

The vile harlot had taken the time Isa spent with Lord Aro to rouse the King. Had she touched him? Abdon forbid, had she done more than that? Isa eyed the fireplace with the accouterments upright near the licking flames. The Harlot's blood would paint the walls.

"Is this the one you spoke of, my love? Isa? What was her last name? Isa O'Pet?"

The King's forehead creased and his body, underneath the layers of warm ware, was board-stiff.

Isa kept her eyes fixed on the King's. "Aro had many fond memories to share of you in your youth, Lady Tanya."

"Did he now?"

Firelight glinted off the gems along Tanya's necklace. Oh how Isa wished it was her skin coming to a scorch.

Isa grinned wide. "Oh yes. How you used to bray like a shifting hound when the moon was full."

The King ushered Tanya to the door with a hand to her elbow. Tanya attempted to exchange a slab of buttery sweetness with the King, but the door was already closing.

"Isa," he cautioned her, his voice stern, "I meant to tel—"

"Perhaps calling you love is too much now? Perhaps you are merely a Liege now?" She went to the wardrobe closet, pulling a more comfortable and simple shift from inside. "My Liege. How about that? My Perelle?" Her voice rose, flicking words out hoping at least one would strike deep. "My Losangier! Escoer!" Her hands fussed hastily with the clothing she wore, tugging and yanking. The ribbon in her hair caught as she pulled her clothing away and it fluttered to the floor.

"That is what you intend to marry?"

"You're upset."

She wanted to wrap her hands around his neck and squeeze. "Please tell me it's not out of love. If she's had her mouth on you, or yours on hers, I won't touch you ever again."

"That's enough."

"Is she enough?" She perched her hands on her hips, red rising from over her neck, over her cheeks. "How many more? One in each city? Why did you even bring me? You could have left me behind, same as always!"

He crossed the room, slipping the brace from around his neck to loosen his cloak. "I said enough."

"Or what? You'll bend me over your knee and spank me?" Still brimming with anger, she spit at his feet when he passed by. "Oh, and how is the beautiful view outside? Hmm?"

She shoved aside the curtain, the cold wind having no chilling effect on her temper.

"When you marry I won't stay around to be your comfort nurse."

The water in the distance let off a glimmering cloud of frozen mist.

"Oh Isa," she mocked him. "The fire in your eyes how it makes me swell like a pig in heat." Her cold breath dissipated into the night.

"It's not a marriage of love." He wrapped his fingers, hot, around her arm.

She leered at him, teeth itching to bite. "Who gains? You? I hardly see the political gain that comes from her—" She waved a hand in the air, seeking out the right word, the one that would carry the bitterness she felt, but thought of none.

"It's not up for debate."

"Why didn't you tell me!" Her words curled with the vapor in the air.

"Would it have mattered if I did?"

Gasping for breath, struggling to see clearly into the night air, Isa resisted as he tugged her toward his chest. "You're a bastard."

He groaned softly and brought his mouth to her neck. "You're the only woman who can say such things and make my heart race."

"I'm being genuine."

"You must understand that when a King of our culture takes a wife it is for political standing. Maneuvering. Yes, I will gain by taking Tanya but it is not the same as the way I feel for you."

"You'll be with her."

"It won't be the same way as I am with you."

He kissed her neck again, soft and attentive. Sending a chill throughout her body, causing her to shudder in the cold. She tried to hang onto the heat, that bitterness she felt. Spite was like a blanket wrapping around her heart, protecting it.

"I might cede control to you at times," he whispered in her ear as his hands drew up the skirt of her dress. "I've tried to fix the damage my father has caused, I've tried to make this work. But damn it, Isa, you must understand I have to still lead a nation."

His hands roamed over her clothed belly. That roughness, that frustration that showed sometimes when he was stung, was in his touch. And even through her anger, it excited her.

"Tell me what more can I do?"

And in all the moments to be the imp, she chose this one. "You can let me go."

Bent at the waist, her arms folded against the chilled wrought iron railing, she looked back. His expression unreadable, his eyes turned down. It made her afraid of having gone too far or having said too much. Though she knew she wasn't in the wrong for asking, for wanting to return to Dwyer—in fact, she should have asked it every morning and night of her captivity—not a single time had it crossed her mind since the King was coronated and took away her irons.

"Do you really want this to end?"

He brushed the hair from the back of her neck and kissed softly. The warmth of his mouth on her skin sent an undeniable thrill through her. His hands cradled her gently and her eyes filled with tears.

Nothing could surpass this physical state. It was a pleasure so intense it wiped away all else. Ephemeral. Only for a few moments, minutes, hours, her mind was on an even keel and her body felt warmed, wanted, and satisfied. And she knew the answer to that question was, "No."


	17. Chapter 17

Author's Note: I apologize for my absence. I was publishing one or two chapter a day and then stopped. Everything from illness to business deadlines took over for a while.

I appreciate everyone reading and reviewing.

And now, the rest of the story...

* * *

Chapter 17

* * *

Going south over the mountains was like waking up from a strange dream. The journey to Denali had brought with it the promise of excitement, of new things and amazing sights, but that now lay in tatters. Had it happened? Everything seemed so impossible now. The closer to Masen they came, the more raw and hollow on the inside Isa felt, like the ocean opened up and swallowed all the sea.

"You're quiet," the King said after spending most of the return journey quiet himself.

Isa shifted in her seat, focusing her gaze on the King and not the blue rolling mountains that surrounded them. He dressed attractively today, dark green piping along his near black vest. Matching braces on his arms, the left one held a small knife with an ivory and pearl handle.

His hair, though, had fallen from their sculpted waves. He had such a casual air about him when no one else was near.

"You were full of words in the last few days at the Denali Keep," he pointed out. "And now?"

Pathetic guilt.

Smiling, she stood and crossed the small space, balancing as the carriage bucked. His scent mixing with the smell of cold air and pine sap. "May I ask you something?" She brushed his hair behind his ears.

He leaned toward her, kissing her cheek. "Anything."

"I can't help but notice that you're the only one with such long hair among all the Lords." What she really wanted was his distraction—his lips to her cheek, his fingers to her chin. If she focused on him, skin on skin, other darker thoughts would be kept at bay.

"I prefer no one touch my hair. Except for you."

"Why is that?"

"Cutting my hair was something my mother insisted on doing."

"Hmm." She ran her fingers through the light brown hair over his ear, tucking the strands behind his shoulder. "It's not always possible to let go. Not like you'd want. I know how that is."

His voice cracked as he spoke, betraying the emotions rippling underneath. "Unlike my father, I've tried to let go of all the bitterness that her death left behind."

He pulled her hand to his mouth for a kiss, his eyes searching hers, his brow worried slightly. Knowing that he carried a hurt was a bit of a comfort. The wounds of that last day in Dwyer would never heal. Life did not go on. But everyone suffered, even the King.

"I've heard quite a few stories about your mother, good ones. Sue speaks of her fondly."

His eyes snapped to hers, forehead drawn. "What of your mother?"

Isa shook her head. "I remember her only a little. She died many years ago. I was almost too young to remember. Sometimes, with the way Sue speaks, she makes me think of her."

Nodding, he seemed to recall a distant memory. "Yes, Sue and my mother were quite close. Sue wept the same as all others when she passed."

He focused his attention out the window, the carriage jittering as they reached the crest of a hill.

"Sue . . . strange," he murmured so quietly Isa could barely hear. "It was such a strange time. Everything happened in a blur. And after it was all said and done, I had given specific instruction that you not know . . . But after some time had passed I hoped that at least one person would have slipped." Turning to Isa, he gazed at her intently.

"Is there no one willing to defy the King?" He smiled at his own joke.

Shaking her head, she swallowed against the knot in her throat. It wasn't often his talk took dark turns, and this felt ominous.

"My father wasn't well. You understand? After the death of my mother he fell ill. It was secret. He somehow became convinced that. . . ." His words, animated and wild, cooled when he continued, "that a faction from your country was responsible for her death."

Isa drew in a quick breath. The sudden cold of the air singed her lungs. There it was: the mystery that she had ceased to ponder. The King's father surged south to revenge the death of the Queen of Masen. King Edward, then only a Prince, had gone with him to aide in retaliation.

"I thought you had known at least that much."

Had her own people really caused their own downfall? No, not all of her people. Only a handful. Traitors?

Her mind pushed against it. "That makes little sense. You were merely a country to the north. What would anyone gain from it?"

The King's expression was only lost, far away.

"What evidence was there? As a Fianta I would have heard of it."

The King turned his eyes, swollen and red, away. "There was no reason to doubt him." His hands dug into the thick of his thighs—knuckles white, veins thick.

"And why now? Why are you telling me this now? Why not before?"

A sharp pain jabbed at her temple again, again, again. The carriage bucked violently, causing Isa to brace against him. She pushed away, wanting to yell at the cabbie to stop. Stop the carriage, she was getting off. Off and away from everything Masen.

"Why!" she demanded, now. The strain of the last few days returning. The stitches that held her together popped and snapped with it. Her body shuddered and an angry sob slipped from her throat. "Why now? What do you gain by telling me now?"

Memories collided in her mind, laughing brothers, her Gibant-mother threading a new rug. All gone. Ended. And it wasn't fair. Isa wanted it back. And the harder she cried, the more desperate the King's effort to wipe away her tears became.

When the effort was useless, when the tears wouldn't cease, he attempted to angle her face for a kiss. More in tune to his sexual urges than anything else, she knew what he was thinking now: calm her with feverish release. She gripped the curl of his collar but didn't know if she wanted to push him away or pull him closer.

"Is that how we are?" she asked, wiping her tears on the smooth of his vest. "Only able to nurse hurt and anger with sex?"

His shoulders fell and he wrapped his arm around her.

She pushed against him until he moved away. "I'm here because your mother was murdered. Your father died. You're now King. And you now have to find a new Queen because the scag you snatched wasn't pale enough!"

He moaned with a sound of pure dread. "My father thought that if he could use you to draw the faction out . . . ."

She didn't need to hear the end of that sentence to figure out what was next: she was bait on the hook and no one came for her.

The fear which Isa had held deep inside—that she had been abandoned and forgotten by her own people—was not flighty paranoia after all. It was her sensing the tSue. She was taken for political gain, and her own people had no interest in bringing her back.

Things were easier to live with when her mind was thick and full of emptiness. Now that her eyes were wide open to the way things were, her heart on fire, all she could feel was the pain of knowing too much. Blessedly, the pain with its harsh clarity, the new wealth of tears that had built, shut off.

Isa sensed the King's hands on her, but couldn't feel them through the cold. _Step back from the falls, Isa, you'll fall in if it you get too close,_ her father's voice, warning her of danger ahead, came far too late.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

* * *

A trail of ants marched steadily to and from the corner of her small, dank room. It hadn't been that long, had it? Weeks only. Yet webs had formed in the corners and a rotting apple core lay in a foul state, luring in all manner of living filth.

Isa never imagined there would come a day when her own people would pass her over. It was unthinkable that they had done so and a part of her simply refused to entertain the thought while the other agonized over what it meant if it were true. What then?

Someone carrying a bucket passed by, the handle clinking loudly, drawing her attention away from the mess and to the door. The improvements—rugs for the halls, curtains on each window, larger sconces in the corridors—were signs that the King had followed through with their agreement. Amid all the coldness, it created a small bit of warmth inside. The King did care for her in some small way. On one hand she had the possibility of being thrown out by her own people, a ransom no one had the wherewithal to pay for. On the other hand she had the King, whom, looking back, was the only one to show her any compassion. What a twist of perverted fate.

How was it that she had arrived at a place where the only person who cared for her in the slightest was the one who plucked her from her home? It was him, was it not? He convinced his father to spare her. It was Edward who argued the point.

Puzzling, still, was why she cared. Why did it touch her so in a place deep inside that she believed to be long since walled off?

However touching some of it was, he had done so all with the intention of casting her off! Soon from the looks of it. Taking her to Denali to rub shoulders with that Harlot! Then having the wherewithall to act the tragic jealous mite all over a conversation and a dance with Aro. Such a smarmy, beautiful hypocrite.

Slowly, her frigid room filled with the light that brought no warmth as the rising sun filtered through the glass. Angel, being confined to quarter duties to ensure she did not run away again, rushed in and swept up the apple core.

"You're going to lie there all day?" she barked, unusually tense, while tapping her toes to stamp out the ants.

"Why do you insist on leaving your refuse in my room?" Isa pushed up from her bed, shoving aside her internal miseries. It was nothing she could talk to Angel about. She didn't know how to keep a single thing to herself.

"How is your Eric?"

With a gruff sigh, Angel perched the broom against the wall. "Much better. But being better means he's gone away again." She flopped back on the bed, letting her arms dangle over the edge.

"That's reassuring though, isn't it? He's no longer sick."

"Well, of course I'm pleased that he's well," Angel mumbled. "But he's gone. I favored him being here with me."

"You can always visit. Without injuring him this next time."

"I have a novel idea," Angel pushed herself up quickly. "We both should visit."

Unmistakable with her dark hair bound up in a braid, Essica passed by the open door. Isa leapt up in order to change into her daily dress. There were other things to see to, many questions that needed answers, but Essica had spoken little since Isa had returned from Denali. There were a truth brewing underneath all the mystery. None of these truths would make for pleasant conversation but Isa was determined to see it through regardless. Anything to keep her mind off the Liege of Masen Palace.

"I think you could use a moment out, anyway. See the world. Get away from this mess, from him."

Though Isa had her back turned to Angel, she could feel eyes on her, trying to pry free the secret of what had happened while she was away.

"So now will you tell me what happened while you were gone?"

With a wry smile Isa tapped the tip of Angel's nose. "No."

Isa met up with Essica right as she stepped through the front door and into the courtyard. Bracing against the cold, they maneuvered around a clutter of wagons and carriages that sat at the bottom of the hill, everyone busy with maintenance and deliveries.

When she was certain Angel was not behind them, or Sue and anyone else of consequence, Isa broached the conversation. "Why is it that you never told me you had a brother?"

Essica paused and turned, her hands buried deep inside the folds of her dress. "I didn't—" She frowned and began again, her tone tight and voice small, "I didn't realize he would be there."

Isa nodded with false understanding and began walking again. "Were you close?"

A young boy bustled by with a wrapped bundle slung over his shoulder. He turned backward and leaned against the kitchen door to push it open, permitting them to enter first.

"Thank you, Rui," Essica said in passing.

Warmth wrapped around them.

Isa hadn't been here in a while, she forgot how warm it stayed. The smell of rich foods filled the room: meat and soup, spices and pepper. It was comforting to be here, much more like home than anywhere else in Masen.

After making their way past stacks of dirtied dishes and cookware they came to a room populated with a number of tables. Here all manner of things were seen to: cubing meats and hulling corn. The walls were decorated with various wooden implements; mallets, rolling pins, large spoons and pots. Essica collected up a basket filled with wax blocks as they passed through, Isa took another.

"So is that all?" Essica set her basket down on the floor and gathered up wood for the fire pit. "You decided to join me in my work in order to tell me you met my brother?"

"You two look alike."

Essica collected blocks of wax from the basket, situating them in a pot over a fire, all the while her forehead was wrinkled with a scowl. Tension rolled from her, making Isa wonder if her relationship with her brother was non-existent, or even foul. She hardly seemed excited or concerned, merely terse.

"He dances well," Isa added. "What's his name?"

"Eustice."

"Is he older or younger?"

"Older." Essica sighed as she stirred the fire. "And married."

"Yes, he told me as much."

Flames licked the underside of the kettle.

"He had a message."

Essica's eyebrows rose at that. "Oh?"

"He said, "Parson's Hat says hello."" Isa watched Essica's posture, trying to read her true reaction, but Essica only poked and stirred.

"That's all?" The wax began to fall together. "Nothing further?"

"We didn't have much time to talk," Isa explained.

"Ah yes, with the King and all." Then, with an impish giggle, Essica asked how it was going.

But Isa didn't want to talk about matters of the Liege and the now soured and unenjoyable dollhouse game. "Tell me about Eustice. How is it that he came to live in Denali, the Lady of Quinne, was it? That must be an interesting story."

"There's little to tell. Eustice has his priorities, I have mine. It's been a while since we've talked."

"Well that's unfortunate. So what is "Parson's Hat," anyway?" Isa braced her hand on a table top and hopped up for a seat as Essica continued to fuss over the wax.

"Eustice is forever trying to find his way back into my good graces. That's all there is to it."

Was this the frustration that the King felt when Isa gave him a dance-about? After days spent actively avoiding this conversation Essica's brush-off nature was already under Isa's skin. "How would something called Parson's Hat mean anything of that sort?"

Essica glanced up, the hint of a glare in the set of her eyes, and shrugged. "I'm not concerned with it, and neither should you be. Now hand me the last of the wax. It should all fit now."

"What are you melting the wax for?"

"We're sparring the cutting tables."

Isa retrieved the last of the wax and two rectangular wooden blocks from her basket. Essica showed her how to scoop out the hot wax and use the edge of the block to rub it into the table.

While they worked, first smearing the wax and then buffing the surface with cloth, Isa tried to approach the subject again. However, nothing came through right. She felt as if she was dancing with insanity, not curiosity. Essica's brother was from Dwyer and had married a prominent family in Denali. Here Essica was, however, working servant duties to earn meager wages.

Isa rubbed more forcefully. "Did you know that Lord Aro has been to Dwyer?"

"Lord Aro?"

"Tall fellow. Stout, older but handsome. A governing Lord for the eleventh quarter across the River. A scar above his right eye."

Essica nodded at that. "I believe I've seen him once or twice."

"He had all sorts of fond memories, it seemed, of the dancing festivals held in the forests to the far West."

"Did he now?" Essica's tone more bland than unsalted gruel.

Essica continued to polish whereas Isa had stopped. "Yes. And of all the strange things, when I greeted him the first time he asked if I was Carmody or O'Mailley." She punctuated it with a laugh which sounded much more like a nervous twitter. "I actually owned up to my surname."

A smile cracked on Essica's mouth, her circular scrubbing faltered as she stood straight, smiling. "That's good, Isa. Very Good. Nothing wrong with taking hold of your family heritage."

They continued work, tossing around a few casual nothings. But soon the prance-about game lost its zeal. Isa tossed her block aside. "I would like to have a truth from you, Essica. What deal was made between your family and Denali?"

Essica shook her head quickly and rubbed harder. "You're the blessed Fianta of Yeoloma, why don't you tell me?"

"Yes, I am the Fianta and along with that comes a level of respect. The least it has afforded me is honesty from the one countryman I know."

"I don't wish to fight."

"Then we won't fight."

"I don't want to tell you."

"Then write it down," Isa spit out with considerable harshness. "You can use the Olen symbols if you'd like."

Essica stopped scrubbing and leaned against the table, her shoulders folded forward. "Ahn Illian Yui," she whispered.

"The Yui tree?"

As Essica made to open her mouth the door to the room was shoved open so quickly it shook the pans nearby.

"Essica!" Gruntie, the rotund traupie called out, her voice too loud in the small space. "Take these up. It's almost breakfast. Set the tables."

Together, Essica and Isa entered the neighboring room. Trays brimming with baked goods for the main hall were spread about.

"The King requested to eat in his room, again. I'll take this for him," Gruntie explained as she gathered a fourth tray. "Isa, go to Bo at the smokehouse. He's late."

"Actually, I'm wanted upstairs. I'll take that one to the King," Isa offered, only to have a few more moments with Essica to continue the conversation.

With a grunt, Gruntie handed the food over. "Don't steal it."

"Yui?" Isa asked as the two slipped quietly up the stairs. "Essica, I don't understand. What would Lord Aro want with a tree?"

"Illian Yui." Her voice dropped almost too low to hear. "The sap."

Understanding made Isa's eyes widen. The sap was rumored to be a powerful toxin. She heard stories of how revered it was. The Western land of Dwyer was brought under siege all for the Yui tree long ago because it wouldn't grow north of the Dwyer Mountains.

The deal Isa had made with herself weeks before, Keep your friends close, your enemies closer, came to mind. But suddenly, she didn't know who was her friend and who was her enemy. Was Essica's brother an enemy now? Was Aro? Was either responsible for the attempt to poison the King which had led to Isa falling ill instead? What if, what if, what if.

When Isa reached the peak of the stairs she nodded to Essica in departure, saying nothing. Everything had shut off again inside, her mind as blank as a sheet of ice over a winter pond.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

* * *

"A drink?" Isa asked, her tone curt.

Edward had been pleased to see her when she entered his room, the mid-day meal in hand. He hoped it was a sign that the tension which had grown between the two of them was coming to an end. For a few moments it felt like old times, before things became cluttered with outside influences and obligations, before Isa learned of his intention to marry Lady Tanya of Denali's Eleventh Quarter. However, her tone, short and clipped with minimal words and an active effort to avoid eye contact, rubbed him raw.

"Why did you wake in the night and go to the servant's quarters to sleep, again?"

She poured until the dark liquid brimmed to the curl of his cup. "What is this?"

"Coffee. It's from the West."

"Instead of wine?"

"A gift from the Duchess of Dart . . . . Please answer my question. Why do you leave in the night?"

"I don't sleep well, m'Lord."

Edward closed his eyes and ran his fingers roughly over his forehead. "I asked, and now I'm telling, no more calling me m'Lord. We're in private."

"Irritating? It's habit."

He leaned forward to sip his coffee, watching her reflection in a wall hanging mirror across the way. If it weren't for the spite that pulsed inside her he'd be able to make the most of this moment together. She was lovely, even in her servant's attire. That noble grace still evident.

After a moment of standing near him she crossed the room, seeking out something from his boudoir: a hairbrush and a black ribbon.

It was a relief, a hint of forgiveness, perhaps?

"Tell me one thing you miss," he said, closing his eyes and relaxing into the chair as she brought the brush through his hair.

"I've missed this. Things were easier when I was the only one to see to your needs."

In the mirror, their eyes met.

"Is that what's weighing on you? That you're no longer a servant? You don't have to separate yourself from me for that."

She said nothing, bringing the brush steadily through his hair again.

"It is not a marriage of love, if that's what has you worried," he said, his voice piqued.

She closed her eyes and tipped her head back with an exhausted sigh, drawling out, "How do you mean?" as if the words were heavy to even think.

"Marrying Tanya is a purely political matter."

"So I've heard."

In the mirror he could see her face draw tight, as if in genuine pain.

"Why does that bother you so?"

She snorted indignantly. "In my country the idea of marrying solely for political positioning is an insult."

Any scrap she was willing to toss him was devoured greedily. "Tell me, then." He twisted around in his seat to see her face directly. "How does marriage work in your country?"

Her face shifted from neutral, nearly contentedness, to that tight, carved expression she wore as of late. "The two to be married are bonded early on. Before marriage they assist each other in things such as building a home."

"How do they decide who to marry?"

"I'm not sure how much of my people's traditions you want to hear."

He took her hand and kissed it lightly before turning around. "I feel like a dog begging for scraps. I truly do want to hear about your life. The life you had before my father destroyed it."

Isa made a sound as if she had begun to speak, but she said nothing for a while. She continue to brush his hair as he sipped his coffee.

"It doesn't matter, really. It was a tradition that did not concern me."

"Did you want it to?"

"We had this conversation once before."

"Well . . . ?"

She sighed and drew the brush through his hair slowly. "Perhaps there was a time where I wanted to be like the others. But like I said, it doesn't matter."

He kept his eyes on her in the reflection, appreciating the way she stood, the way she swept her hand over his hair after each stroke of the brush.

"And now?" He could see her, dressed in white.

She stopped and looked at him, eyes wide with . . . irritation? "Now what?"

"Marriage. Have you thought of it now?"

Abandoning the effort to brush his hair, she threw her head back with a deep, full laugh. "What are you going to do? Arrange a marriage for me? Yes, the King who loves to lick my quim is going to marry me off to some brutish heckle in the Western Court!"

The thought hadn't actually entered his mind before. He had always considered her to be his and his alone.

"Please, make it an Earl with a grand gibbous so I can at least have some fun before he beats me!" She chuckled at that, but Edward failed to see the humor. He enjoyed the thought of her being beaten no more than he enjoyed the thought of her being betrothed to anyone.

But the first smile he had seen since being in Denali lit on her cheeks, lovely enough to wipe everything else away. "You're at your most beautiful when you're happy."

Isa's mirthful chuckling stopped.

"A delicate light comes to your dark cheeks. I've rarely seen it."

She stared at him with an odd expression on her face and then stepped forward to gather up the tray of food from the table. She paused for a moment, hands poised to lift the platter. "Will you at least tell me what political gain you will get from making Tanya Queen of Masen?"

The truth? The absolute truth was deep, wretched and foul. Now, here in this moment, it made Edward's skin crawl. Isa already spited him, and if she ever learned the truth, she would cut him from her life forever. He was certain of it.

Abruptly, he stood and took her into his arms, his nose to her hair, fingers skimming the bare of her shoulders. She smelled of lavender and wood smoke, a lovely blend that had become his favorite perfume. And it hurt, because he knew she did not feel the same. She did not return his affections with equal passion.

Perhaps he had become too close? Rather than dipping his toes in the pool he had fallen in.

His body shook with the effort to keep his emotions at bay. He was losing the fight. However painful it was, he let go before she had a chance to return the effort

Hands clenched at his sides, he left the room and didn't look back. It was evident, now, that no matter what he did Isa would hurt. The best thing would be to let her go, give her a home of her own. Care for her from a distance.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

* * *

How does one broach the subject of treason? Isa tied her hair back with a simple scrap as she thought it over, having been unable to find her blue ribbon since she returned from Denali. Countless times she had practiced what she would say to Essica in her mind, but voicing her issues aloud gave it substance which was a far different matter.

Sue rushed through the room, going on about the old sewage spillway and how it wasn't adequate enough, the smell making the far side of servant's quarters intolerable after it rained. Isa ran the fabric harder over the washboard.

Treason.

No. She clenched her eyes shut and shook the idea from her head. It's not treason. King Edward of Masen was not their King. Isa's King was Isa's father. Broad-chested, thick-legged, stout-hearted.

"Aye, why's that Isa?"

"What was what, Sue?" Isa asked, confused.

"I asked you why you were here more with us now." Sue stood, fists on hips, watching Isa work. "Doesn't the King need you?"

"He's very busy," she replied. Sue eyed her with such intensity that it made her want to step away. Glancing to Essica, whom was dipping a rack of candle stick wicks into a vat of steaming wax, she itched for Sue to simply go away.

"I'll be back to collect those, Essica. Make it quick." Sue left, a basket of candle centers in hand, her footsteps quieting as she walked down the hall.

"Essica?"

The sound of wax sloshing didn't stop.

"I was curious about something. I thought perhaps you might have the answer."

"What might that be?" Essica's voice slid up with interest.

Isa perched the washboard against her chest to wring the fabric out. "I was thinking of the day you came to us here."

"Such a surprise, yes?"

"Indeed, a wonderful surprise." The room suddenly turned a small bit hotter. "You said something about coming here to finish what needed to be done . . . ?"

The swishing sound of dipped centers parting liquid wax slowed. "I did?" Her voice was hesitant.

"Well . . . . I was wondering what you meant by that?" Isa carried the wrung, clean cloth to her table and spread it out.

Essica sank the rack of wicks into the wax again. "You know what I meant." Her voice slight, barely audible.

Leaning across the table, Isa studied Essica carefully to read her body language. "Do you remember the day I fell ill . . . the wine and the goblets?"

Essica hastily wiped a lick of steam away from her brow. "Of course. You gave us a scare."

Isa looked about, half expecting to see Sue or Pearl in the doorway. "The young boy, Thomas, he wasn't the one, was he?"

A strange silence fell, much like the odd silence that accompanied Isa's last hours with the King as they returned from Denali.

"Essica. Talk to me." She reached out to her, but didn't touch. "Things are hard enough as it is. Please don't be like this . . . . The poison. That your brother's doing? Or perhaps Aurrie, your uncle?"

Jaw tense, Essica dropped the rack. Hot wax sloshed and splashed over the edge. "Do I have your full trust, Isa?"

Hastily, Isa agreed, if only to continue toward the topic of Aurrie and Eustice.

"Certainly."

"Don't get upset with me, now. Do you promise?"

"I do." Isa's body bristled with anticipation.

"Swear it on Abdon's Bride?"

"I swear on the whole Blessed Family! Now out with it, please!"

Tears brimmed in Essica's eyes. "Forgive me, Isa." Her voice shuddered. "It wasn't meant for you. I didn't mean for you to—" Essica stopped short.

Isa's skin stung as if the words were a slap to her face. A small, silly part of her wanted that fact to be eaten up and never thought of again. It was Essica that day, the wine and poison.

Isa's stomach churned, her fingers turned slick with sweat. "Did you at least pray to Abdon for the safe keeping of the young boy, Thomas, who died in your stead?"

Lips pressed tightly together, Essica drew back. "After all the agony the people of Masen have wrought?"

"He was but a boy," Isa scolded, her voice a strained whisper, shouting quietly. "Not a soldier. He did not cross to the South. He worked to earn wages, the same as you."

"I'm sorry!" Essica choked out, her chest heaving.

Isa wrapped her arms around her. "It's okay. I understand. I do." A skewed truth. She understood the strain that political upheaval had brought, but letting a boy take the fall, his family name sullied? "It's been rough for me too."

"Isa. I am very, deeply sorry." Essica brought the hem of her apron to her eyes to wipe. "I didn't intend for you—I swear it."

"It's okay." Isa nudged her playfully, encouraging her to get back to work. "Can't kill me, though Abdon knows people have tried."

"Are you sure?"

Footsteps in the hall had them returning to work. Isa scrubbing dried wax from another cloth, Essica dipping candle centers. That, 'it's okay, I understand,' was both a truth and a lie. She did understand, but it was not okay, and though Essica was held dear in Isa's heart, a fear crept into her thoughts. What if Essica had succeeded?

"I did want to know something, though," Essica added after some time went by. "Why haven't you . . . you know?" She drew her hand through the air as if shooting a small bow and arrow, merely suggesting at the act. "Your own family, Isa." Her voice dropped low. "And yet you . . . you're so close to him all the time."

And that was something even Isa had wondered. Why had she permitted the King to live? She did entertain notions of dealing with Edward of Masen in that way. Of all the people, she had the opportunity to do so at every turn. The thought crossed her mind less and less these days, though, but it still was like a foul melody. Last night it played, loud and strong, after he turned his back on her and walked away. It felt like a door closing on what could have been, leaving her with nothing. But that was from a place of hurt, of anger. It would be undignified to do away with your foe in such a way.

Sighing, scrubbing, Isa answered, "There are other things that need to be seen to."

ooo

The moon glowed bright, casting short, dark shadows here and there. Aside the fat moon there was nothing in the sky.

Isa sat, knees drawn to her chest, under the crook of a barren tree. She hadn't come to this spot since before winter had set in. It was lovely here, with a sea of budding green far below, the occasional color peeking through from early flowers and fresh leaves.

It had been so long since she saw to her old duty of seeding hope. There, she did so for the first time since coming to Masen. As the dew collected on the freshly overturned soil she considered how a down heart and complacency had led her to shirk her life duties so quickly. All the ways of her people she had shoved away, hiding from them. What for? Shame?

The King's father had made every effort to divide her from her customs. It was not her intention, but in the end he was quite successful, wasn't he?

Perhaps it was the peaceful surroundings—the night all around but yet a sense of safety wrapped tightly around her—that kept her mind from wandering into dark corners. In relative peace, she lay her head back against the rough bark and closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of soil and leaves.

"There you are."

Isa's eyes flew open at the sound of the King's voice. The sight of being on the edge of a precipice made her heart drop as if she were falling. Sleep came at strange times.

Her peaceful solitude now destroyed, she didn't bother to stand and curtsy.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

His boots crunched on the barren roots as he came closer. Isa kept her eyes on the dark distance, seeing nothing past the first line of windswept treetops.

The request seemed odd. Why ask? She made to stand and find her way back to the stone wall—let him have her now ruined private perch. A strong, firm hand pressed to her shoulders.

"Sit."

"You'll soil your clothes. It'll take me forever to scrub the dirt out," she cautioned him, her eyes traveling to the wall once more.

The King took her place next to the tree. Then, with arms wide, he invited her to nestle to his chest. She moved slow, knowing that this meant her silent standoff had come to and end, at least for the night.

"I need your warmth."

With a sigh he reached for her and pulled her close. She resisted at first, but he was warm and inviting and she, feeble hearted and weak spirited, relaxed against him.

Such a fool—she closed her eyes and appreciated his voice, that soothing depth—a damned fool to think she could resist him.

"How did you find me here?"

"I wanted an answer as to why you're constantly keeping me at bay."

Isa clenched her eyes closed, trying to find the strength to stick to her decision and not let his aura pull her back in. She dredged up memories of that fateful night, but they were not as potent as the ones that came on their own.

"Ever since our return from Denali you've been more distant. Sleeping in your old bed, not even stepping foot in the new room I have given you. And here, I find you on the edge of nowhere, under a dead tree, asleep?"

She tensed against him, anticipating another argument, an escalation of tension, fearing where that might lead. Her hands, clammy, rubbed at her skirt. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"A new idea? Instead of us fighting why don't we talk?"

Eyes stinging, she didn't answer.

"Tell me more about the girl from Dwyer."

She turned enough to meet his gaze, seeking out a rebuff, but the soft moonlight made him look entirely innocent. It had been so long since she had seen him unclothed and underneath her. She couldn't deny how her sex ached for him. Her resistance slipped, she wouldn't give into the pull of the physical but she could at least indulge him some meager conversation. Some scraps.

"Perhaps," she ventured, "this once you could tell me about you."

A sharp wind blew bringing with it painful needles of cold. The King shifted behind her, working free the clasp of his cloak so as to wrap it about them.

"Tell me about your life as a child here. How did you grow up in such a place and turn out far differently than your father?"

"I'm not sure that I'm all that different from him," he said, his voice dark.

"Of course you are. He was foul, crass . . . self centered. You know, a typical King."

His hands found hers and they laced fingers together. "Being a King doesn't suit me, then?"

She gave a half-sound, like a no, bit it didn't quite take form. He was quiet for some time. The longer they were together in silence the longer she was able to imagine they were two commoners, nothing more.

"My father was harsh to everyone in the end. But he wasn't always that way."

The statement was made as if it would alter the past.

"When I was young," he continued, "I remember him being pleasant. Loving, even, in a way. Did you know I had a brother?"

Her head whipped around to look at him closely. "No, I didn't know."

"I used to play on the top of the castle walls. I fell a few times, suffered cuts and injuries. Terrified my mother." He took a deep breath, his body relaxed. "There was a man, Marclay, who was in charge of keeping me safe. He went with me everywhere. I felt toward him almost like a son to a father. Marclay fell ill, ergotism, and my brother went with—" his soft, musing tone shifted, adopting sourness. "And," he continued after his breath calmed, "he climbed up with me, and we were running and playing Cat and Hound. I lunged, like a feral cat, and he stepped back . . . . One small step—"

Isa wiped at her eyes, knowing all too well the feeling of the people you love being taken from your life.

"It was fast, too fast for me to react or realize what happened. One moment he was standing, a playful, stern look on his face. Howling. And the next moment he was gone."

The King kissed Isa's hair, breathing in deeply. "I remember how strange it was. The sun was bright. It was hot in the summertime. And birds, horses, people, no one noticed. There, and then nowhere. I used to lay awake at night, staring at the wall of my room as if I could see through it, imagining he was in a scramble coming up the mountainside. But, he never came . . . . After that, both of my parents changed. Things were never the same. My mother withdrew, spending most of her time barred in her chambers. Still kind and loving, but not the same."

Underneath the cloak, Isa threaded her fingers through his. Pausing his words, the King kissed her hair again.

"After my brother's death my father shifted to a darker path. Of all the many things he said, all I gathered was that he was convinced I would have been wrong for the throne. He blamed me, openly, for losing Godwin. Since I've taken to the throne I truly wonder if he was right. There's plague to the East, famine to the West . . . ."

"Perhaps that's because you're trying to rule like your father. Maybe you should cull your own path."

"And you?" he asked after a long moment. "Are you anything like your mother or father?"

Isa had never entertained the thought before. And in that moment she knew the answer was a stunning, "No. I'm nothing like my family."

He wrapped his arms tightly around her. "Why do you think that?"

"I'm the village idiot who was caught in a trap."

"Is it really a trap when the village is the guillotine?"

"A guillotine?" She sat still, quiet, as she thought over the truth in that.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

* * *

Isa lay in bed next to the King, surrounded by billows of warm blankets. She kept her nose buried in the mess of his hair, fingers wandering here and there. His scent, that lavender spice, was quite relaxing. Eyes closed, laying still, breathing softly, he seemed so vulnerable.

"Why can't I keep you like this?" she whispered, as if not knowing the answer already. Feeding her curiosity, her desperation, it was like feeding a dragon bone meal in hopes it would become tame. She would only end up hurt in the end, more than she was already.

He had told her of his brother, his father and mother, and while she knew it was true that the man here was not as his father before him, Isa couldn't let go. He spared her only to cage her up. It was a conflict. The two halves of her, the love and the hate, were still at each other's throats.

When they fought, Isa clung desperately to the rim of the waterfall. The water far below her cold and dark, the rocks sharp. Sometimes it seemed that if she let go she'd fall into the depths of the King. Him, open armed and soft-eyed. But now what lay at the bottom was a great unknown.

With a smirk, she considered that perhaps the answers were inside Parson's Hat.

What she did know for certain was that her body enjoyed lazing in bed alongside the King, him quiet and supine. But there was work to do. Aro's arrival was days off. A sickness had taken several members of the servant staff ill. Isa, though no longer assigned duties by Pearl, was still determined to assist. Her days were best spent occupied.

Essica.

The name, the odd fear that it now brought, leapt at her from the quiet. The sun was Essicaping up the edge of the earth, and it would soon be time for the King's breakfast. Isa jumped from the bed, gathering up her shoes and cloak as she went.

ooo

The kitchen smelled of yeast and heated oil. It would be a comfort to Isa if her heart wasn't still racing from the unfounded panic, if sweat hadn't soaked through her dress spite the cold.

"Morning!" Her voice came out shrill in her effort to disguise her unusual appearance as a pleasant visit. The door slammed shut behind her.

The staff all paused, looking to her in alarm. Standing still, they occupied the room like decorative ornaments, hands in basins and barrels. Isa kept her smile bright as she crossed from one room to the next, seeking out Essica.

And there she stood, the questionable-friend, hanging a mess of ladles and spoons.

Essica glanced over her shoulder. "I wasn't expecting you, they said Juniper would come."

"Is breakfast ready?"

Essica nodded her head toward the far room where the tables boasted covered trays. Isa picked over each one, deciding which meal the King would appreciate—but most likely not eat—the most. She selected a tray which boasted slices of veal and fat turnovers, sided with razzle berry gravy. When Essica's back was to her she dipped a finger into the gravy for a taste. Shameful that she had to worry over such things.

Yet when Isa arrived at the King's room he wasn't there.

"Gone early for his morning constitutional?" she asked a guard stationed at the far end of the hall.

"I'll leave his food on the desk. Be sure to tell him I've prepared it so he won't throw it away."

As if she were a member of the Royal House, he bowed.

Setting the tray on the desk, Isa paused for a moment, thinking back to that first day so long ago. Assaulting the King, clawing at his clothes, the pure thrill she felt through it all. Mere feet away from where she stood were faint brown stains on the floor slats where his blood dripped from his wounded chest.

After that moment, the first of many, she cleaned herself and him at the basin nearby, washing away the evidence of their tryst. Numerous things had changed since then. The downhill run things had taken was all rather disheartening.

While in his room with the door shut, nowhere else to be, Isa pulled a cloth from her apron pocket to dust with. First, the candelabra that hung nearby. Then a painting. It was a piece that had curled her lip the first time she saw it: a bronze-winged angel with a black sword held overhead, slaying a horned creature that looked more like a foul turtle than a demon. Such strange stories that accompanied their religious beliefs here. Movement in the gloss of the frame caught her eye. Instantly, she bristled, spinning around.

Expecting to see someone, she was surprised there was no one. The room was empty save for her. The drapes hung still, the frumpled bed remained as it was. The King's ostentatious mirror with her own frightened face reflecting back at her was the only thing to see.

Yet, the prickling tingle didn't leave her skin upon seeing nothing but herself.

Saying, "Hello?" aloud seemed sensible. Looking back to the painting with its Essicapy figures, she tried to replay the movement in her mind.

Holding her breath, she listened closely, but heard nothing other than the slight thump of her heart pulsing in her ears. Then another movement, by the balcony this time. She crossed the room, toeing her way forward.

A bird on the wrought iron railing.

"Shoo!" Laughing with relief, Isa popped the latch on the door. The grand crow leapt and then flapped its wings to fly. Catching the wind, it glided and then dove gracefully, snatching an insect from the air. As it glided toward the forest canopy in the distance, Isa's gaze wandered to the garden, to the King.

Walking slowly, his hands clasped behind his back, he strolled between rows of pruned hedges.

Isa leaned over the railing, her chin resting in her palm. She admired the way he walked, a graceful stride no less prideful for his ease. The pace he held was slow, yet the wind swept across the courtyard, over the flower covered trellis, and played with his hair. Long flowing locks of brown.

He walked with Stuart D'Compte and the Duchess of Dart, an old crust from the West. In the months before, when Isa was a servant and nothing else, the Duchess was nearby, often ferrying for the interests of Rose.

Rose, the former concubine. Isa chirped aloud with a laugh. Rose was here one day, and gone the next, neither seen from nor heard from since. Most likely that was Isa's future. The thought of a room full of discarded castle dainties came to mind, like something from one of the oil paintings that decorated the castle walls.

Worse yet, perhaps she would be sold. Like a peck of pickled peppers.

Frigid wind flicked at the shell of her ears until they stung. With a clap of thunder, harsh rain began to fall. Isa abandoned the crow and the King. The guard bowed as she passed.

That sourness stayed with her through the long day.

By the time night came Isa was blinded by exhaustion but there was no sleep. No rest.

She meant to slip from the King's bed—his arms too heavy, his breathing too coarse—and make her way across the whole of the courtyard to her smaller more quaint room, but when she reached the foot of the stairs she realized that was an impossibility. The rain in the night had turned to snow. The crest of the hill caked in white, piled deep against the steps.

With heavy feet, her back aching, she returned to the King's chambers. He had rolled over in her absence, an arm spread to the corner. Even if she wanted to she couldn't climb back into bed with him. She was needing to cut herself off from him, not cling to him even if it was in the dead exhaustion of night.

Her bed, the one assigned to her on edict of the King, the one she hadn't slept in before, now called to her with its fluffy down isolation.

The vastness of the room swallowed the light. She took time to light every candle and stoke a strong fire before she crawled onto the bed. The blue and yellow bed drapery surrounded her. Memories of hiding in shrubbery when she was young came to mind, but she was too far gone to feel homesick. As she slid between the cold layers of bedding, relaxing in spite of herself, her feet grazed something hard and cold. She flinched away, but her eyes slid closed before she could form a thought.

A moment later a strange brilliant blue light woke her. It took some time—eyes squinting, body arching with a stretch—before she realized where she was. Up, awareness pierced her like lightning, washing through her in surges. She threw back the covers.

A bundle of fabric, like the cleaning rag for the bannisters, bound tightly with a ribbon. It took a long moment for her to realize what ribbon this was—blue with a stripe running along the edges. The one that Essica gave her, the one Isa thought was lost.

Eyes stinging, relief filled her. Someone was gracious enough to return it. The kindest thing in all this time. Fingers shaking, she slipped it from the bundle. With it strung between her fingers she gathered her hair, twisted it around until she was able to run the ribbon through the center and secure it in place.

As she did so the fabric unbunched in her lap. Inside: a blade, the bronze handle and scabbard carved skillfully; two featherless quill pens, stark and simple.

Gifts?

By far, the knife was eye-catching with its intricate carvings of florals and leaves, but the pens were more of a puzzling matter. Around the handle of one pen was a piece of parchment, a scrap ripped from a larger sheet. Its torn edges cutting lines of poetry in half—evidence it was ripped from a greater script.

 _Four Silver for the Honey Lord_

 _All Gold for the Holiest of Crowns_

 _Investigate the secret, stored_

 _Tyrant walls will tumble, Hellward bound_

 _Have faith, ye lost, peace will afford_

 _Soul's salvation, brimming full, resounds_

Not a gift?

A riddle? She held it up to the light, flipped it over, as if the answer was written in milk.

A communication? For what? And why?

Was she meant to write a reply? It seemed odd that they were given in such a way. Even the fabric which everything was wrapped in seemed meaningless.

Who was the Tyrant? In her faith the one who was the Tyrant would be the one who opposed the Blessed Family. In this context, however, did it mean the same? Someone who opposed the Holy Church? And what of the reference to the Crown, meaning the King?

The sudden flood of questions made her head throb and ache.

Quickly, she rushed to dress herself with a warm cloak. The snow, peaked and crunchy, had already begun to slump and thaw where feet had tread. The courtyard, with the rising sun, had filled with servants tending to duties.

The steps inside the quarter she took by two. Essica was in her room, sprawled out on the bed, eyes closed with sleep.

"Essica, up." Isa grabbed her shoulders and shook. "Wake up."

Essica's eyes gleamed an eerie white when they fluttered open.

"What does this mean to you?" Isa ripped the ribbon from her own hair and held it out.

Slowly, Essica pushed herself up, eyes on the blue swath in front of her. "Yes. It's the ribbon I gave you."

"It went missing. Someone found it and left it in my bed."

Essica wiped at her eyes, fighting with a yawn. "Only the ribbon?"

"No, it was wrapped around something."

With a frown fixed to her face, Essica reached out to take it. "Around what?"

"Why does every conversation we have together go this way? I ask, you flit about. I bring up something else, you pretend you don't know. If you know something, out with it."

Essica kicked free of her covers and jumped up from the bed, pulling Isa toward her, fingers clasped. "They told me I was wasting my time, that you were too far gone."

"Who?"

"The Teh Council. At the gathering in Elgon they made the decision that you were gone to us. Inside." Pointing to her heart, her hand quivered. "Part of the reason I've come is to prove they were wrong."

Isa felt twisted and heavy inside, her soul like a knot around a ship's anchor. "And what did you tell them?"

"I told them nothing. I didn't know what to say. You and—" her voice dropped. "You and the King are . . . ."

Are nothing. Isa felt it, but couldn't say it.

"Aurrie placed me here," Essica continued. "I asked him to, of course. My duty was to see the King's reign end, the line of Masens to run aground like a ship wrecked as have been the effort of so many others. But—" She glanced to the door, her excited voice dropping to a whisper. "I've drawn attention."

"Attention? From whom?"

A thumping sound from somewhere outside forced Essica's mouth to snap shut. She shook her head. "Everyone else in his inner circle is unwavering. You're the only one on our side who the King trusts. But . . . I wasn't too sure at first, but here you are."

The way she smiled as she spoke, the passion of her words building with intensity, diminished the disapproval Isa felt. She didn't like the idea of running the King's ship aground. Yet, that was put to the side when she considered Essica, and possibly her own people, thinking of her in a positive light. It was like being forgiven after being falsely accused of a crime.

The positivity drew Isa in. She cracked a smile. "I'm only his courtesan to help others. There are more important things to see to."

"You are on our side, then." Essica said, smiling through her tears. "I knew it."

Our side? With that revelation, suddenly things made sense. That's why no one had come for her. That's why she was in the dark all this time. There were sides at play far beyond the King and her, and she, with her heart split in two, wasn't on either side.

"I have things for you." Leaning over the bed, Essica twisted around strangely, pulling something from under the matted bedding. Standing, she unfurled a glossy green silk. A dress. A traditional piece from Dwyer worn to festivals and sacred gatherings. Gemstones along the shoulders, ruched fabric bands in a brilliant shade of green like a glossy Yui leaf.

And then she pulled free a much more subtle item. A pouch. Small, flat, velvet. "I keep mine in my apron. But since you are a Courtesan I made this for you. To conceal them neatly inside your bodice."

"They're both lovely," Isa said while draping the dress over her arm and taking the pouch in hand.

"Here." Essica popped up from the bed, pulling something from her pocket. A pen like Isa's with a stem that of a porcupine quill. Essica pulled the silver nib free from the slim shaft. It popped loose like a cork from a bottle.

"See? Four drops of silver, illness. Ten drops of gold, death."

Isa stepped back instinctively, not wanting to be in contact. The memory of spinning wildly and waking to the pain of healing wounds came fresh to her mind. Worse yet, she now feared who the Holiest of Crowns referred to.

"It must be drunk with wine or spirits," Essica continued. "Otherwise, it will have minimal effect."

"Is this what you've come here for? Only to poison the King?"

"No." Essica tucked the pens away somewhere in the bell of her dress. "There were political matters, treatise and proposals, but those paths ran dry." From her bodice she drew a blade, similar to the one given to Isa: creamy yellow ivory over a black casing. The delicate carvings didn't do much to disguise the fact that it was such a brutal thing. The blade shone, the sharp edge catching the light.

"Were you given something such as these?" Without waiting for an answer, Essica sheathed her blade and then plucked the pouch from Isa's hand. Taking her by the shoulders, Essica turn her around.

With brusque fingers, Essica loosened the lacing that ran along Isa's back and then shuttled her hands underneath and around to the front in order to situate the pouch. It lay snug right underneath Isa's bust, pressing uncomfortably against her skin.

"There." She tightened the lacings, tucking the frills of fabric in. "He can touch all he likes but he will never know. Not until it's too late."

The purpose of such a thing was ghastly. Isa didn't know which God to pray to for forgiveness of her traitorous, selfish heart—for merely standing and listening to Essica talk so animatedly about ships running aground—so she prayed to both. But neither prayer eased the feeling of revulsion that crawled along her skin like snakes.

"See now. You're given free pass in and out of his chambers. You're with him everywhere. I've yet to make it down the North Hall."

Hastily, Isa thanked Essica and attempted to excuse herself, wanting to rip the pouch from her belly and run.

"Was it the marriage?"

Isa stepped backward to the door, playing the fool with a, "Whose marriage?"

"Is it the marriage that has you changing your heart?"

Is that what this looked like? A change of heart?

Perhaps it was.

Perhaps Isa was struggling to find her purpose. Perhaps this was her path she was meant to take and the only thing standing in her way was her tattered shreds of morality and loyalty. Loyalty to whom?

"Things." Isa smiled awkwardly. "Aren't always what they seem."

Essica reached forward, pulling on the rumple of Isa's dress. "A bitter thing. Becoming the forgotten. Take that hurt. It will help you see things to the end."

Atrocious. No, she couldn't go through with this course of action. It wasn't her intention to gain footing in order to do away with the King.

As Isa left Essica's room she mulled over the turns that the evening had brought. It was impossible to deny it, no more looking aside and pretending it hadn't happened. Her own countrymen had set the wheels in motion and now everything was spinning wildly out of control. First Queen Dora, and now King Edward. Who else? At what cost?

Like a bundle of flowers being tossed about and then arranged neatly, priorities and ideas took form in Isa's mind.

Until this moment she hadn't felt a sense of direction beyond the expectations of her station, beyond the game of dollhouse and servant, but now . . . did she have a path to follow now?

Lord Aro was wrong, she did have a choice.

In fact, her choice lay with Aro himself, the only one other than the King to show any interest in her wellbeing. Somehow in all of this, Isa knew Aro was the key, an end to misery and confinement. Instead of seeing something debilitating and horrific, she now saw a way out, a way to a more solid life where she wasn't doomed to be discarded.

Already the air was far more fragrant, the water calming.

ooo

Juniper, her small arms cradling fresh blankets for the King's bed, was a step away from the chamber door. The sight of her, skin pale and nearly ashen white, gave Isa pause.

"June? Here, let me." Isa collected the blankets from her. "Your cheeks are pale, love. Are you feeling well?"

"Yes, Miss."

"How about you go to the kitchen and ask Essica for some of today's soup. There was plenty left over, I'm sure more than enough for you to fill your belly."

Like a child offered a piece of fruit from a Picrue tree, Juniper's eyes lit up.

Amid all the things that meant so little, being able to care for others in such a small way gave Isa comfort. The person she was meant to be still lived inside.

The King's chamber was cold and dark, several candles having gone out, the fire reduced to glowing embers.

Now alone, Isa set the bedding aside and dropped to her hands and knees, feeling along the underbelly of the bedframe to find the small key box. She had seen the King draw it out only once, and knew that there were several places in his chambers where important documents were stowed. He trusted no one, not even his clerk.

When her fingers touched a slick corner an uneasy excitement overcame her. This was far beyond what she ever imagined she'd do, poking about the King's secret places. But there seemed to be no other solution. She needed leverage.

Damn the waterfall.

Keys in hand, Isa checked the hall, seeing no one of concern other than the guard who stood dutifully. The desk nearby the balcony was the most likely place. She had seen him sit there, the plans spread out before him, pouring over details, the plume of his quill fluttering wildly. Sketches for a bridge which looked more of a lengthy barn stretched across the most narrow span of the river. Isa hadn't looked at it closely, however. At that time it meant nothing, more of the King's random busy-making. Now she wished she had paid more attention.

In fact, now that Isa looked back on the previous year, she noted that the King had made great effort to conceal it form her; turning away when she entered the room; silencing his self-speak when she came close.

Early on it only made sense that, as King, it was natural to be suspicious of everyone, especially your ill-gained servant who had loyalty forced upon her. And as she considered things such as the marriage kept equally a secret, she wondered, how much did he trust her? Implicitly? Or was the idea that she held anything of his heart and mind a mere illusion?

Yet, as her fingers fumbled through the pages inside the cedar drawer, she realized that if he found out what she was doing in this moment he likely would sever himself from her in more ways than one. And the thought hurt, like taking part of her own body, flesh and blood, and severing it clean with an axe. She flicked her hands through the air at the sudden gross thought of it being her head on the block.

Was this act here her letting go of the fall's rim? Or pulling herself up?

The truth, much to her his heartened self, wasn't writ on the leaves of paper tucked inside the desk drawer. She flipped through them again, growing more anxious and baffled. Had he taken them with him into the Strategy Room?

But, no, if he held papers Isa would have noticed when she last served him wine.

Shutting the drawer, she returned the key to its place. Perhaps this would be easier to accomplish if she approached everything differently, more direct rather than snooping about. The other night the King seemed open and willing to engage her in conversation. If she twisted things the right way then perhaps tongues would loosen again. At the very least she would be able to relieve her stress, ease the ache she felt.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

* * *

Air, hot, burned in Edward's lungs. A succubus she was, drawing the life out of him, only for a few moments. His elbows buckled and he collapsed back onto the bed. How satisfying, to let go and let his Isa take control. Only for a time.

Isa's body, slick with sweat and quivering, didn't relax against him. She remained tense, arms tight, breath quick and deep. Running his hand over the tense muscles of her back, he angled his face to look at her.

She stroked her hands over him, feeling the taut smooth span below his ribcage. Their physical connection the only way they could purge tensions. Yet as of late that no longer seemed to work for either of them.

He clasped her wandering fingers, holding them still. "What is it that bothers you?"

Lord Honeycutt presenting a case of suspicion crept into Edward's mind. The true loyalty of a number of the King's staff was brought into question—male and female alike. Clenching his eyes closed, he pushed away memory of Honeycutt's demand for an investigation, for arrests. He refused to let anyone taint his feelings toward Isa.

"You know what's on my mind?"

Yes, the marriage to Lady Tanya. It had become the sole source of distress between him and Isa. Wrapping his arms around her, he held her tight, trying to reassure, but her body did not relax.

"I was wondering . . . about my status."

His body snapped tight. She craned her head to see him.

"What of your _status_?"

She shrugged, turning her face away. "I got to thinking about that plan of yours, the one we went to Denali to see to."

Slowly, his mind shifted gears into the political arena. The desperate attempt to push others into what they had no desire to abide by, the need to make it as appealing as possible.

"What of it?" he asked, wanting to know where her mind was so he could redirect it appropriately.

"Well, you had said that the plan was finished . . . ?"

"The Pillary Proposal was an idea destined for failure as the governments of Denali have their priorities askew. It is no longer on the table. I want you—no, I need you—to understand. Please, Isa. It pains me, too, but I am to marry Tanya Houk. Whether you or I like it or not matters little."

Popping up on her forearms, twisting around in his embrace, she said, "Perhaps there's another way."

She sat back on her knees, feet tucked underneath, eyes bright, looking rather like a tiger ready to pounce. Edward pushed up onto his elbows.

"What exactly does that have to do with your status?"

"I happened—" she said while wrapping her hands around his thighs, the contact distracting him a little "—to overhear a conversation."

As her fingers pressed into his skin a pleasured waved surged through him. His body jumped against hers.

"Tell me."

She traced her fingers up, around, teasing him with the touch she wouldn't give. "It seems to me that the only element holding back the agreement is the mistrust between you and Denali."

He huffed with amusement. "The only?"

"Since then I've been thinking—" She skimmed her fingers over his growing shaft, teasing, distracting. "—maybe there's a way to change their minds."

Surprise allowed him to regain focus. "Why have you not brought this up before?"

She shrugged. "I wasn't certain how you would respond. I was born of noble blood and valued for my wisdom in my country, but here . . . ?"

Edward's heart shattered at that. She was here questioning her value and worth—still blind, still in the dark. Words failed him. Words for Isa were not enough.

Sliding his hand underneath her arm, he rolled until she lay supine underneath him. Drawing along the round of her breast with random patterns, he drew one pink, sweet nipple in his mouth, biting softly. Her legs parted for him, and he pressed the tip of his shaft against her slit, rocking gently.

The way her wetness coated him, allowing him to slip easily over her was a bliss all on its own. Searing heat passed from her sex to his as she groaned soft and gentle. Stunning in the light, astonishing in the night.

"Loi mon ta' ven." When he spoke in his native tongue did she know the corner of her mouth lifted with a soft smile?

"Passuat?" he whispered, his lips grazing the lobe of her ear.

Isa's eyes drifted closed.

He curled his hips forward and as he did so he caught her earlobe between his lips. Her fingers danced up his back, to his hair, which she pulled at gently as she lifted her hips to meet his.

"Give me a purpose."

"You have one."

She clenched her eyes closed and shook her head. "Revisit the Pillary Proposal. Push to see that through."

Edward growled in disapproval, soft but insistent. "No more of that."

"Denali doesn't trust you. Show you're open to change."

Rising back on his knees he dropped his mouth to her breast again.

"Give me a seat on your Council. A figurehead position, nothing more. Show them you're not like your father."

Pushing up, he met her eyes. The fire that he treasured was there, burning fierce, but the request she had made gripped his heart and squeezed it tightly.

ooo

He stood at his chamber window right outside a stripe of sunlight, watching Isa. She seemed to be smiling as she walked and talked though he couldn't be sure for the distance.

On his desk lay papers: requests to purge, requests to arrest, requests to investigate, requests to question.

All denied.

To one laymen of the church he simply gave a dismissive flick of his hand.

His countrymen were wrapped up tightly with the past, married to it in a way Edward once was himself. But now he had divorced those beliefs, the ones that had raised him to see Isa, and the young girl he now knew as Chalaih, as barbarians.

The ways of the Dwyer were undeniably primitive—slaughtering their militant saints, indenturing women to a life of childbearing and wet-nursing, elderly women deprived of husbands for the blessing of their sacred tears, children who ran wild and suckled the sap of trees—yet in the way Isa carried herself, he didn't see a drop of these stories as truth. Mere myths save for the one she did give recognition to: sacrifice.

The very thought caused bile to stir and his mouth to sour. He couldn't imagine it, such a horrid, disgusting act. He had saved Isa from such a life, even if it meant defying his father, and he would go any means in order to spare her from it yet again.

Now, with the arrival of Lord Aro around the calendrical corner, he felt an overwhelming pressure to address these many concerns his Nobles had raised.

It was easy to say, "No," to the sentence of treason, disembowelment, death. It was easy to deny, using his mother as leverage. But when Lord Honeycutt had offered the far less dire solution of banishment, mere relocation to Telnit come shipment of the next ferry of grain, Edward was unable to find a solid, indisputable reason.

Perhaps his father was just with his declaration that Edward was not fit for the throne.

He had promised Isa nothing, but felt compelled to see her request through, to lay it before the Tree of Lords per his father's edict. He would frame it in favor of the greater goal. He would present it as a valiant and noble concept. He would argue it was an act of good faith. The only thing he couldn't do was declare it so. The last few measures his father passed before his death confined Edward's abilities, diminishing his strength all out of paranoia, control from beyond the grave. At the end of his internal battle, however, his dedication to Isa won out, even if it was an act of futility.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

* * *

Eyes on Isa, narrowed, full of judgment, made her feel more foreign than she had in a long time. She overstepped her bounds, gone too far by requesting a seat on the council. The request wasn't planned out, it had bubbled out of her from a frenzied gush of twisted urges and desires.

The Lords who were present and seated turned their eyes away. One seat remained empty—Lord Honeycutt's.

In a brief moment before the King turned his gaze from her she saw a softness there. No anger or hurt, but shame. Embarrassment.

Did she expect they would say yes? How lofty had her vanity flown to think she would be permitted? Something no woman had done, something that no foreigner had done. It was absurd, she knew it. But yet, she couldn't spite the King for his effort.

As if it hadn't happened, as if she knew nothing, she served the wine. When she poured for the King he let his fingers linger on hers. Isa smiled only for him to see. He had gone to the Council as she requested. That alone was such a meaningful act, it touched her deeply.

Isa collected up the tray and glanced briefly at the King, his expression unreadable, and she stepped through the door.

The hinges creaked as the door closed. The ribbon of light that was thrown by the flames in the fireplace narrowed until it disappeared. Steel rattled and thunked against wood, and the way was shut. Never before had she been barred from the King's presence. His orders?

The look in his eyes, the slight touch. Shame, not anger. Whatever had happened in regard to her request had burned her brittle footbridge. Didn't he realize she had little choice?

ooo

Isa crept quietly through her private room's passage door into the King's chamber. His chamber was poorly lit yet more candles would throw too much light under the door. Somewhere in this room were the sheets for the proposal and now she had no choice but to find them.

Squatting by the bed, she collected up the key box again. The desk drawer was left alone. This time she scoured the room for a hidden cove. There were three keys and she only knew the use of the two. Every inch was felt: the underside of the desk, the box which the privy pot sat upon, the trim that ran around the base of the room, the floor underneath the rug.

It was only when she was dripping with sweat, her fingers sore from blindly feeling, that she found the hidden panel inside the wardrobe closet. He thought he was clever, didn't he?

Sitting on the hardwood, Isa unrolled the parchment.

The word mechanization stood out strangely, written in another hand, its meaning obscured. Steam powered. Isa knew what steam was. She'd heard it used to the East, somehow used to grind grain without mules. Angel had seen and talked about it with wild, wide eyes some time ago. What made little sense was how a mechanism—like a draw bridge crank?—could be moved that way. But that's what the verbiage said would happen: the river was to be channeled, water boiled, and somehow that would operate a thing called a pillariny wheel.

Yet there were no plans to go along with the written texts save for a few symbols sketched in the margin of the page, almost as an afterthought. These made little sense as well. They were more akin to fancy letters save for one: a set of circles, one inside the other, with several small triangles sketched between the two rings. A drawing of a real object? Like a ring or a bracelet?

And nothing more.

Squinting in the darkness, Isa read through the page twice more and saw nothing that was telling. Nothing in here spoke of warfare or devilish deeds. The end result truly seemed to be to be mill stones for grain. Like the grist mill Angel had told her about. But why not call it a grist mill?

Wiping her hands over her forehead, she brushed away the chilled stickiness of sweat and then hurriedly rolled up the paper. What was the point of hiding this when nothing revealing was written on it? With a feeling of delight she realized that this was quite perfect. She could take this to Lord Aro, prove there was no foul play at hand, and rid herself of one rather unwanted Houk Harlot.

Problem solved. It was simple, really.

Spirits up, eyes fierce with excitement, Isa tucked the parchment back where it came from.

That moment, that one minute of sheer elation she felt, quickly shattered as she discovered the parchment's companion tucked further down inside the cubby.

Hand shaking, breath coming in a rasp, she made to pull it free. She would only look. If it contained anything that was in high question, she would pretend it didn't exist. The first parchment was sufficient.

As she pulled it free in order to satisfy her curiosity the lock on the chamber door rattled. The small noise made her heart leap and gallop in her chest.

Before the latch flicked she had already replaced the documents and collected the key box, hiding it in her pocket while she rushed to the fading fire.

By the time the King stood in the open door Isa was struggling to breath steady, poking the embers with an iron skewer.

"Isa?" his voice a surprised whisper.

She collected up a stash of logs. "Your fire went cold."

Footsteps crossed the room, coming mere feet from her. She arranged the logs properly, clearing out embers as needed to allow the air to flow more freely.

The King stepped closer. She could see him now from the corner of her eye. "You're shaking."

"It is mighty cold."

"You're sweating."

She dropped to the floor to breathe the fire back to life.

"I know today wasn't what you expected—" he began, the next words caught in his throat.

Flames jumped to life, casting an eerie amber across the floor. Isa stood, wiping sweat from her brow. The King's hands waited there to brush the hair away from her neck. The fabric pouch snug to her belly suddenly felt immensely heavy. It called her attention, reminding her of what she was doing, what she was risking.

"Is it unforgivable?"

She turned her face, barely enough to see him through strands of her hair. "No."

Only then did she realize how much her body shook, and how truly cold she was. The sweat he spoke of was frigid on her skin. He kissed away one drop, and then another from the back of her neck. She gasped with the sensation, the excited chill that raced under her skin flooding her with heat.

Reaching behind her to find his hip, perhaps his arm, she instead found nothing. He had stepped away. When she tried to turn he caught her arm, still behind her on its journey toward nothing.

"You wonder why I still keep you close."

She nodded, eyes on the now climbing fire.

"I keep you . . . because others would rather I not keep you at all." He sighed, sounding exasperated or even desperate. "And I can't let you go; knowing what would happen if I do."

Isa stepped back, into his arms, into his comfort. The half of her that cared for him, that needed to be with him, found distraction in his affections.

ooo

Isa stood, slipping her feet inside her shoes, moving quiet and slow as not to draw attention to herself.

"Off to your second life?" the King said, joking a little.

"I can't sleep like you do."

"You sleep in your quarters quite well." He pushed up, shoving aside the bedding. "I've given you your own place to sleep. I've given you the finest artwork and candlesticks I could procure. I've tried to give you back your life. One of comfort, of security . . . yet you appreciate none of it."

She wanted to curse at him. To him it was that simple? "They're lovely things. But lovely things don't equate to homely comforts."

"Is that why you've put some away?"

A sour tang built in her chest and then surged outward, racing to her fingertips. "I'm use to more quaint sleeping arrangements."

Rubbing his hands over his face he laid back. "What will you do when you leave here now?"

"It's almost sunrise. In less than a week guests will arrive from Denali. I'll likely join Pearl in the soapery."

"Soap?"

She nodded. "I enjoy making soap. The scent. The whole process of boiling and rendering."

He pushed up from the bed, tossing back his side of the night curtain. "You've made the soap I use?"

He stripped his nightclothes while she straightened the sheets and blankets. Teasing her with his nakedness, he walked across the room to his wardrobe closet. Eventually Isa forced herself to look away.

"I'll come with you." His voice carried a strong up-tick.

The idea sent a shock through Isa, which seemed to humor him greatly. In an effort to call his bluff she sassed, "Come with me, then. I'll teach you how to make the soap you wash your ass with."

His smirk deepened into a full grin, causing her expression to fall.

"You're serious?" She smoothed the crumpled curtain with too much zest. "I don't know if that is a grand idea, m'Lord."

He spared no time arguing as he raced to get dressed.

ooo

It was uncomfortable at best to walk across the courtyard, her hand tucked around the King's arm. Anything east of the small crest that ran down the center of the courtyard was considered unclean. Noblemen didn't go to nor ever care about things such as servants and the grime of the quarters. And then to the soapery down the hillside? The King looking over vats of simmering slurry, contents best left unmentioned?

She pulled them to a stop right uphill from the quarter, glancing about, hoping no one had seen her take lead. "I'll have Anne or perhaps Juniper walk you to the—"

Shaking his head, he nudged her forward. Oh dread. The front door seemed more narrow, the stairs darker and more dank, the hallway closing in on them with every step. Worst of all, others were watching even while inside. They had stepped back into their rooms, watching from the shadows as the King, in his burgundy velvet, walked with Isa.

By the time they arrived, Isa's cheeks felt swollen and hot.

The King didn't seem uncomfortable at all, something which made her twang with irritation. This was his property. He was the King, but still. A struggle would have been comforting.

The King's hand, broad and firm, gripped the latch. It looked out of place, like a pearl in the mud. Isa's heart struggled to pump flaming blood through her veins.

If they were alone she'd tell him, "No." And then she'd explain that, "Pearl already had things underway. We shouldn't keep her waiting." But that was one measure of leeway she had with the King in private and now, surrounded by a hallway full of servants, she was only left with the option to enter.

"I'm only changing," she whispered harshly, warning him off after he shut the door.

She could see it in the set of his eyes, he didn't mind at all. It was almost in challenge, daring her to undo her clothing.

Trying to keep distance between them, between the oversized fabric of her dress length and his calves, she walked to the far side of her room. Not a long journey, a few feet at most. She reached behind each shoulder, quickly, and loosened the ties that held her straps in place. Hesitantly, she began to untie, undo, and unroll her dress.

The King made no effort to hide his approval as she stripped bare and gathered up the cream-white shift from her bed. She tried to slip it on before he could act, but he moved quickly.

His hands on her hips, his mouth on her breast. She fumbled in her effort to pull it down, trying to push him aside and slip the fabric into place.

Almost as if it were instinct, her mind forever connecting tension with sex, the urge to raise her voice grew strong. She managed to keep her words to a terse whisper, "Someone will come in. There is no privacy here."

"No lock on your door?" He slowed his effort to peel the clothing off, looking away.

"What does a servant need with locks?"

She pushed away to right herself, but he stepped with her, arms holding her tight. Her body began to betray her determination not to give in, and became more willing against his.

"Pearl's waiting," she argued, but her words were nearly inaudible.

He grinned wickedly. "No she's not. She has no idea you had chosen to assist."

Groaning, she rolled her eyes. His hardness pressed into her belly, pushing her will to slip further. With one hand gripping his hair, she pulled him down for a kiss, a foolish effort. His mouth, that soft slickness of his wet lips against hers, burned away the embarrassment, the self-awareness.

Isa couldn't keep her eyes from drifting closed. He felt too good, too satisfying, his need of her an addictive substance, she didn't try to take the lead this time.

Breathing, rough and harsh, he kissed down her chin, to her neck, and further down to her breast. His hands tugged and grappled with the fabric of her shift until it gathered around her waist, her lower half bare. He shifted, turning her around, pressing her back to his front, and pushed her toward the wall.

As she lifted her hands to the wall he untied his trousers. The sound of leather pulling through the eyelets was thrilling.

"You're so enticing. I've always loved the way the pale of cream fabric looks against your darker skin. Distinguished colors like stained glass windows in the church sanctuary."

His words made her laugh. She had to bite her lip to keep from being too loud. At any moment the door could open.

Stepping close to her, he slid himself into her swollen sex with a groan, one hand on her hip squeezing tightly. This, that first effort, the first glide, made Isa feel as if her body was melting into his. She closed her eyes, letting her head fall forward and rest on the back of one hand.

He moved inside her slowly, leaning over her, whispering in her ear, "I've wanted to take you like this, here, for such a long time."

She wanted to tell him to be quiet and to talk more all at the same time. The deep tremor in his voice sent tingles down her spine.

"You on your bed, making you beg me so loudly to be harder, rougher, that you'd make everyone listening in shy away in embarrassment."

Isa kept her eyes clenched, trying to block out the idea, but it was too late. They were listening right now. They were whispering. They knew in the same way that the unknown eyes of the watcher in Denali had known, had heard.

"Thrilling? People knowing? Such a filthy perversion."

The heated desire in his voice made her body simmer with delight. She clenched around him uncontrollably, causing him to hiss and groan with pleasure.

"Yes. You love that, do you not? You're more slick at the thought."

She bit at her lip, hoping the pain would stop sounds from escaping her mouth. It wasn't enough. She groaned with ecstatic pleasure, near desperation.

He stood straight, pushing the fabric further up, exposing the whole length of her back. Driving in to her, hard, the sound of skin on skin and heavy breathing filled the room, echoing off the walls, sending her near to the peak of pleasure. Isa stepped her legs apart to take him in deeper.

There was a commotion outside the door. Raised voice. In a far off corner of her mind she knew something was happening but carnal instincts had taken over. All she wanted to do was give herself to him. Only the pain of her teeth digging deep into the soft of her lip kept her somewhat quiet.

The King leaned heavy against her, his hips surging forward, delivering that sweet sensation. Slack mouthed, Isa gasped and shuddered right as the door opened. She should have wanted to find a measure of modesty, but all she could do was gaze dumbly at Angel. Stepping back, eyes wide, Angel drew the door shut.

And that act alone, being caught, seemed to push the King over the edge. He gripped her hips and drove deep, holding himself inside, spilling into her.

Once he found satisfaction she abandoned any effort to obtain hers. Angel, eyes wide with tears? She pushed away, standing and smoothing her clothes.

Isa's mind filled with panic at the obvious: Eric. She was so caught up in her own twisted net she had thought little of him.

The King tried to take her into his arms as he did often, but she denied him, hastily explaining that Angel needed her.

"That girl?" he said, his breath still coming heavy and fast.

"Angel," she corrected as she headed for the door.

A strange look overcame him. He followed as she opened the door and rushed down the hall.

Angel hadn't gone far. On their approach she stepped back into her room and crouched to the floor, head bowed, body shaking. Isa wanted to tell her to stand but in the King's presence it wasn't her place to do so.

"What's wrong?" Isa crouched next to her, speaking quietly.

"Eric is sick. It's worse."

Hearing Angel say it made Isa feel the selfish fool.

Glancing up, Isa took stock of the King's demeanor. There was something that disturbed him about this exchange. Was it her seeing to the needs of a friend?

"Is it the same ailment as before?" Isa took Angel's hands and pulled her to her feet. Her body wanted action, anxiousness surged to her fingers and toes.

Nervous, Angel looked to the King. Eyes on his, she said, "Not like before. His skin is pink with fever but in a sickly pale way. Veins blue. His tongue's swollen. I went all the way to Leif to see him and he didn't seem aware I was even there."

She looked to Isa, exasperated. "Can't you do something?"

Isa reached for her, wiping tears away. "Angel. I want to, truly I do. But I don't—" she swallowed hard "—I don't think I can help him now. I don't think the alchemist in Pruitt has what he needs this time."

Clenching her eyes closed, Angel sobbed, body juttering.

"Fever," the King spoke, having regained his sensibilities. He turned and stalked into the hallway. "Fetch Sue and Doctor Carlisle. They're to go to Leif."

While the impromptu preparations were underway, Isa raced to her room, the gilded monstrosity, to gather another pair of candlesticks and the stash of gold coins the King had given in recompense per their agreement, something that sat untouched.

She wrapped candlesticks in an underdress and slipped a few coins into the pouch that Essica had given her, the others into her apron pocket. Once the knife was situated alongside the pouch, she smoothed her dress and gathered up the bundle. Turning, Isa stiffened with surprise.

The King stood in the doorway, arms crossed, blocking her way through. "Where is it you think you're going?"

Had he seen?

"You don't believe I'd risk your health and your life on such a journey, do you?"

"Eric is close to me. He means the world to Angel." Pocketing her fear, Isa stepped closer. "Thank you for caring. I'm sure he'll pull through, now." She reached up to kiss him.

His hands found her shoulders. One trailed lower, to her hand gripping the knotted fabric. As his fingertips touched her knuckles she slipped her hands behind her.

A knock on the door interrupted. They both turned to look—Stuart D'Compte.

"What?" The King barked, his ill-mannered side now coming through.

"There's trouble. The Prodel Training Ground."

The King looked to Isa, hesitant. "What happened?" he asked. His eyes were fixed on hers with such intensity it made her mouth go dry.

"The magistrate is there. He's seeing to it, but there's been a death, m'Lord. Amongst other concerns." The Stuart looked to Isa as he spoke.

While the two men engaged in conversation—hushed tones and obvious tension—Isa curtsied as if dismissed and hurried around them, through the door.

Once she was across the threshold she ran. A moment later footsteps echoed behind her. She glanced back. The King. Arms pumping, body leaning forward into the run. He gained on her with every stride.

Cursed shoes, so slick underfoot. But Isa reached the stairs and descended quickly. Bracing the carved banister at one landing, she leapt from one case to the next, nearly tripping over her feet when she landed.

"I can't help you if you go!" His voice, like a clap of thunder, filled the vast room.

She continued to descend the stairs. "The world isn't that dangerous," she called out.

The King's last words of warning echoed in the room as she raced through the entrance, her feet flying over the stone portico.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

* * *

Lord Appleton's manor—old, earthy brown brick, peaked windows, ivy all around—stood tall and wide between two groves of trees. The roof was sheeted with stone slabs, chickens pecked around the front lawn. A mix of wealth and peasantry.

Before they had even stepped up the portico Angel argued her point, again, of just slipping around the main stead and venturing to Eric's room. "No need to know on doors."

"Why are you worried for? I'll knock, ask to see Eric, and that will be all. The King sent us, it's not as if Lord Appleton can dare send us away. He's not that much of a fool, is he?"

Angel hushed after that.

The entry was imposing, however, the manor looking a bit eerie as if the attic slits were watchful eyes. Isa looked back to the carriage, to the guards who stood on watch. It gave her a bit of comfort in an odd way that they were there. Almost as if the King himself had accompanied her.

Above the front entry was a wood and brick tympanum. In the center, a family crest host to symbols for grain and fire in the bottom corners. Large and carefully crafted in the center was that same symbol: two circles, one nested inside the other, triangles in-between.

It sent her mind back to Eric's clothing, the corded emblem which she had forgotten and the symbol on the paper still hidden away inside the King's wardrobe. Curiosity and unease battled. Though she had come to only give attention to Eric, she realized this was a chance to unravel the mystery.

The front door opened wide. A servant boy in a simple uniform, trousers and a bell sleeved top, answered.

Inside the home was rather grand. The main entry was lined with a number of paintings, all of which appeared to be scenes from the surrounding countryside. Two large arches were on either side of the hall. An unusual staircase in the shape of a spiral led to the floor above.

The boy bowed and said nothing as he exited through the arched entry on the left. They stood for a moment, their small group seeming strange in a foreign place after arriving unannounced. Angel pulsed with anxiety. A moment later the boy returned and ushered them into the adjoining room. It was a decadent dining hall. A large table boasting a spread of bread and soup sat along one wall but the table in the center was sparsely decorated.

A nobleman dressed in a white top with dark lacing along the shoulders sat at one end. Nodding in greeting, he remained seated. He was shockingly young, his face smooth, blemish free, clean shaven. And yet he had a dark hue to his skin, far darker than Isa's.

"What is it that brings the King's medicery here to Leif?"

"Eric," Isa explained. "The King has sent Doctor Carlisle to care for him."

Lord Appleton's cheeks drew in between his teeth. "Again. I'm in the dark. How had an ailing servant come to be a concern of King Edward?"

"Word spreads when there's talk of the plague."

He took in a gasped breath, but dismissed it with a guffaw. "Plague? In my home? We're days away from the border here."

"If it is the plague," Doctor Carlisle emphasized, "we need to see to him immediately. The cost of my services will be covered by the King's purse."

After a brief exchange between the servant and Lord Appleton, the members of the group were ushered from the room. Outside, they were led around a narrow walk and through a garden gate. Even amid the circumstances the scenic view of a river in the distance lightly touched by a sheet of fog, beams of sunlight all around, was breathtaking.

In the far corner of the property, behind rows of corn, was a small wooden hut with a cockeyed staircase and a door nearly off its hinges.

Inside, the air was stale and foul in the worst of ways, almost as offensive as the collapsed spillway at the quarter. The single room building was small; there wasn't even enough room for all four to enter. Isa waited outside on the stoop.

Eric sat a few feet away, his head no longer wrapped as Isa had last seen him, but he looked considerably worse off. He held the hand of a woman, her body pale and still in a chair next to his. He looked no better off, his hair a frantic, oily mess, his skin shining in the dusty light.

The doctor set his bag by the woman's chair and combed her hair away, feeling her neck with his fingers.

"Are we too late?" Angel asked, kneeling beside Eric's chair, reaching for his hand.

"Was she like this when you were here?" Sue asked.

Angel shook her head. "Beth, his mother. She was outside and well two days ago." Tears pooled in her eyes again.

Isa stepped back, now feeling like she was standing in on a private moment to which she wasn't invited.

Sue shoved a blanket into Angel's arms and ordered Isa to fetch some food from the carriage. "And clean water," she added.

While Angel and Sue took Eric to a nearby creek to bathe and Doctor Carlisle tended to Beth; Isa did as she was told, quickly gathering a box of food stuffs, draping a towel and a change of clothes overtop, and then journeyed back to Eric's single-room dwelling.

Inside the shack was a sight that made her breath fall. Beth sat, her face covered with a blanket. Doctor Carlisle looked to Isa. "It's not fever as the King feared, but Conalism. An ailment from food."

Isa said nothing as she set the box down near the doorway, her eyes on Beth's still body, pale gray fingertips protruding from the blanket. She was just sitting upright when her end came, and it make her look almost alive.

Stepping backward, Isa's feet found the ground, her eyes still on Beth, her mind fixed on far more ghastly memories of the end for others.

A rustling in the brush nearby and Sue's voice snapped Isa back into the moment. She turned hastily and made her way to the manor through the tall rows of corn, the tops wilting. Unease gurgled inside. She kept her eyes on the path in front of her, as if looking to the manor would cause it to reach out, wood and stone, and snatch her up. It was a comfort now that the knife pressed to her ribcage and the pouch clung to her skin.

Lord Appleton stood at the far end of the dining room—table no longer set—looking through a window to the hillside beyond.

"Doctor Carlisle says it's not plague, but Conalism."

"Tainted water? I hadn't realized there were issues at hand. I mostly rely on Beth to keep me appraised of happenings in the far end."

"Beth, I'm sad to say, has passed away." And though she didn't know Beth in the slightest degree, saying it still made her eyes sting and her throat tighten.

He kept his face turned away, but his jaw tensed. "Well . . . that's unfortunate."

"Sue and the Doctor are seeing to her now."

"I'll take care of things in that regard." He turned his face to the side, but not enough to set his eyes on her. "Beth's family would want to give her Last Rights."

She reached into her pocket, touching to the gold as if to ground her. "When we leave for the Palace I am to take Eric with us."

At that, he turned to face her. "He's my servant, not charitable goods for the taking."

"I'll compensate you for your loss."

One thick eyebrow rose. He watched, silent, as she pulled a number of gold pieces from her apron and stepped forward to set them on the table.

He collected them, counting them out as she walked about the room. Paintings, bright and colorful, finely detailed, occupied the walls like a mosaic. The scenes were strange, soldiers fighting amid billows of smoke and fire, groups of men tending to large iron tubes that looked like tall, narrow kettles laying on their sides. Unsettling. Some of the scenes brought back memories of that last day, but the only smoke she had seen emanated from fires.

"Grandfather commissioned the series. The Battle of Flock and Kettle."

The place was familiar, she had seen it on the map in the King's Strategy Room, but beyond that she couldn't recall anything of significance.

"Did you travel direct from the castle?"

"Yes. We left in the early morning hours." The scene in one piece had her attention: long kettles were emitting large balls, hurling them across a river, to a wooden fort beyond.

"I'll have food brought." As he spoke, another servant, a young girl, hurriedly set a place at the table.

Isa addressed her, "Food for Sue and the Doctor would be appreciated as well, thank you."

"Please, sit. We'll talk while you eat. I'll be pleased to entertain a Lady of the Court."

"Your manor is lovely. Has your family been in the region for long?" she asked as she stood in front of a wood carved Appleton family crest. The circles again drawing her attention. There was a connection between the King, the failed Proposal, and that symbol. This was an absolute in her mind.

And what would happen if she asked questions and managed to know everything and was still unable to alter the course of her fate?

Of that, Isa wasn't sure.

Soon, a bowl at the table was filled with steaming soup. It was the first sustenance Isa had eaten in more than a day. Until that first spoonful met her tongue she had not realized how hungry she was. The potatoes held the proper amount of bite, the spices in the broth reminded her so much of home. Her real home. The eeriness that surrounded Lord Appleton's abode melted away as she ate.

"Wonderful flavor."

"Thank you. My cook is from Brunnelvale. Her family grows many spices and herbs there. My house fills with the most delicious smells when she's in the kitchen."

Isa set her spoon down after eating plenty and sipped the wine. Rich and heady, it sent an extra warmth through her. "I was curious about your family crest. Especially the circular symbol."

"The aperture? Without it, my family would never have become so instrumental in the stability and growth of Masen." He grinned wide and leaned back, holding a glass up to be filled.

Isa dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. "What does this aperture pertain to, exactly?" Understanding might lead her nowhere, but it was satisfying.

"It's all about saltpeter. The weapons there—" he motioned to the paintings "—The aperture is where you light the saltpeter, using a wick. My family built its wealth by mining. We exported potassium nitrate among other elements to Tarn. That provided Masen and my family a stable fortune that lasted us for quite some time."

"And now?"

"That was a long time ago. Our mines are now tapped out, sources have run dry, and political winds have shifted, causing a rift between us and Tarn. Now here we are . . . dead in the water. From mighty power to meager pleon."

And though he sounded melancholy, she was filled with relief. Again, from yet another source, was the narration of a political shift. She took in the paintings with a new thought, feeling a bit of relief that this was all in the past.

"Where is it that you're from?" Appleton asked. "Your accent and your skin. You're not from here, are you?"

Taking a sip, Isa hoped to disguise her hesitation. Many negatives could come from answering that. But given his appearance, he was not a native, either. "I'm from Dwyer."

Without so much as a quirked eyebrow, he said, "Ah yes. I know the story. You look so different than I imagined. They said barbarian. I expected you would look more—" He swirled his glass in the air, sending the wine into a spin. "Untamed."

Taken aback, Isa grinned. "Perhaps I am."


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

* * *

Wind blew hard, cracking limbs from the nearby oaks and pines. Edward paid it no heed, his attention given to the trouble at hand. The body of Sir Gisson was found in the bulrushes hours before. Sprawled on his belly, clothes torn by the brambles that snagged as he passed through, one hand dug into the muck at the water's edge. His body skewered through with a blade.

Five men, honored knights trained to fight, to give their every attention to all that transpired around them, yet none of them had seen Sir Gisson in his final moments.

Lord Honeycutt approached, hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword, surveying the field of men. "The same description surfaced when asked about suspicious persons near the area. Short, dark skin, the size of a near child."

"I find it hard to imagine that a female the size of a near child managed such a feat."

"Permission to take—"

"Denied."

"Your Majesty, I _strongly_ urge you to reconsider. Chalaih will only become more of a problem if we do not act. We waited, and now look. A hair ribbon was found not too far away."

"Which could have been left by anyone." Edward's argument was one of desperation: his Isa had possessed a ribbon that was similar. If she weren't gone from here—his stomach tightened at the thought.

"And when the girl was seen again, her hair was down." Honeycutt stepped sly in front of the King's field of vision. "With all due respect, your passion for this slave of yours—"

Edward's hand snapped into the air, ending Honeycutt's statement before he was finished.

Honeycutt stepped back. "If you do not act, I will."

That gave the King pause. If Honeycutt wasn't vital to the King's plans with Denali, if he wasn't given a place in government for his dual loyalty—a Denali insider having familial roots within both the Denali governments—the King would have been rid of him long ago. Edward was not blind to Honeycutt's manipulations. Grinding his teeth, Edward forced himself to put aside his personal qualms.

"No." He raised a hand to cut off Honeycutt before he was able to voice his opposition. "If she's the new face of the faction any such will most likely be met with stealthy force. It's best if the true reason for her being taken into custody is not made known."

Bowing his head, Honeycutt stepped away.

Edward turned, watching him retreat. "What of the grain for Telnit?"

Honeycutt stopped, his foot on the stone path that led up the hillside. "Due to leave port by nightfall."

Nightfall. _Will Isa be back before then?_ Were two guards enough to ensure her safety? It's not what Edward's father would have decided . . . and that is precisely why he considered it an option.

Edward left the Prodel Training Grounds and journeyed to the Palace steps and then to his chambers. He set his mind on how to break the news to Isa. Such an act against one who was seen as a friend would not go unquestioned. It would not pass her awareness without being met with divisive anger.

Standing on his balcony, Edward watched as the guards marched across the courtyard, over the hill's crest, down to the quarter. Honeycutt had acted quickly. Like a tiger stalking its prey through the jungle, it would soon come up, a rabbit in its teeth.

Or, a rather tame hare. Chalaih walked with her hands behind her back, a guard on each side, head held high. Honeycutt followed, carrying several items. When they came to the crest the guards with Chalaih turned east, and Honeycutt turned west, to the Palace.

Minutes later, Honeycutt entered the King's chambers offering up evidence. A rolled document—the seal cracked, the ribbon that bound it missing—two writing pens, and a knife.

The moment Edward saw the document he knew what it was and how it came to be in Chalaih's possession. Items in his drawers were tossed out of place, his key box missing one day and returned the next. None of these things had gone unnoticed.

Standing, watching, he waited for Isa to return, for the cork to be popped free of the bottle and that spite that she seemed to harbor toward him like an infection set free. Edward knew it would come, and he knew what he would have to do when it did.

ooo

Wind continued to howl, having raged on throughout the day, showing no signs of calming. It was dark before the carriage arrived. The horses even seemed weary from the day's journey afar. Isa, the shade of her hair visible even through the darkness, stumbled as she stepped to the ground. Edward's body snapped tight as if to assist.

She turned about, reaching into the carriage, helping someone. A male? Sue raced to their aide, and they both carried a boy over the crest of the hill.

Edward's concern wasn't for this individual now on Palace grounds, but for what most certainly would come next.

Time ticked slowly, and Edward grew more concerned, more agitated as time passed. Through the trees he imagined he could see her window, which never lit with the yellow of candlelight. What was Isa doing? Did she know already or had that realization yet to come?

And then, the moment at which things tipped from calm to chaotic, arrived. Isa, arms stiff at her sides, fists clenched, stalked over the crest of the hill. Her eyes found Edward's through the distance, her steps seemed to quicken.

Walking to the hallway, Edward waited to meet her. He counted the seconds—twenty—with quick steps it would take just shy of two minutes to arrive at the North Wing. His heart leapt and jumped in his chest, his breath had run ragged from the frigid wind long ago, leaving his throat dry and raw.

Thirty—her voice, shouting in Dwyer, could be heard, filling the palace as she came closer. Fifty—the sound of her footsteps, short and quick, could be heard now. She had cleared the main stairwell far more quickly that he imagined she could. Then, she came into view. After she left earlier this morning he had hoped her return would be marked with pleasantries, perhaps a passionate interlude on the balcony.

When a guard behind Isa left his station to pursue her, her pace quickened. "What have you done!"

Her arms pumped, propelling her forward, demanding to know, "Did you hurt her!"

Hair flying madly, the fabric of her dress drawing taut with each hasty step, she seemed as if she would out-pace the guard that pursued her . . . until she didn't.

So close he could see that the whites of her eyes had turned red. Another guard had joined in the effort and managed to get a hand on her. She fell—eyes fixed on Edward's—and wrestled. Legs bare as her dress twisted about her middle, she kicked wildly, landing the sole of one foot to the chest of one guard. He staggered back, but the other slipped one hand behind her. Soon, her fight had been staved by a rope which bound her wrists. She collapsed to the floor, chest heaving, tears wetting her cheeks.

One guard moved to hoist her to her feet, and in that moment Edward ordered for them to cease. Silence fell on the hall again.

Edward saw to her: stooping, helping her sit, smoothing out her dress to cover her legs. He wrapped his arms around her and together they stood. Isa, eyes swollen, her body jolting with quiet sobs, lolled her head against his chest.

"Did you help her?" he asked, his hands cradling her head and shoulders to him as they walked through Isa's door.

She looked to him, forehead crinkled, eyes puffy, fear plainly writ on her expression. "Is she—you didn't—?"

Edward shook his head. "Executed? No."

He set her on the bed and returned to the door in order to shut and lock it.

"Did you help her?" he asked again as he sat next to her, working to free the bonds from her wrists.

Her head fell to his shoulder, her body shuddering with another cry that plucked and flicked at Edward's heart. But, there were more things to see to, questions with answers to seek out.

"All she wanted," Isa said, her words thick with emotion, "was to care for her family."

"So you know what happened?"

Isa sniffed. "No." She fell into silence and the air crackled as everything shifted again. Her crying ceased, and she sat, hands pressed flat to the bedding, glaring up at him from the corner of her eye. Her gaze was piercing, filled with malice and loathing, resentment and disgust.

Judgment.

Harsh and cruel judgment. It was like she wormed inside him, ripping at his reason, forcing him to question the decisions he had made. Trying to take control of the situation and twist it around, shape it and warp it from what it was.

Isa was on the other side of the line.

He reached back to find the rim of a chair. "First," he said as he sat. "You must tell me if you touched anyone unclean today. Are you to fall ill and die on me now?"

"That won't happen unless you've chosen to sever my head from my shoulders."

Anger made him snap, he surged forward so quickly Isa pushed away, scurrying to the far end of the bed. "Enough of your game," he hissed. He had grown tired of everyone's plays for power and efforts, including Isa's. Honeycutt and all others had spent hours pushing and attempting to control. This battle had gone too far.

Isa squatted, strangely animalistic, "A game is it? So you've struck at Essica instead of me? Check? If I castle my Rook is that a proper counter defense?"

The look didn't leave her eyes as he stared her down. "Your game is to spite my every effort to care for you. Souring the wine."

She huffed through her nose. "And what's yours? To cull away everything I care for? If I love a fish will you kill that too?"

"That depends. Did the fish use you only to spy on me?"

Her hunched shoulders snapped back immediately. "Spy?" She laughed, sounding fragile and disingenuous as she did so. "Essica is no spy. What evidence is there?"

"You're too trusting, Isa."

"Evidently." She slowly climbed across the bed to the mound of pillows, her fingers running along the trim of her bodice when she sat. "If I told you all the ways in which she's not a spy would you let her go?"

"We're far past that point."

"Because of what someone else said!"

"Because of what someone has done!"

"If you believe such things about Essica then why don't you think the same thing about—" She snapped her mouth shut before the last word took form, her eyes going wide.

Edward brought his fingers, almost mindless, to his chin. "Why . . . what?"

"Where is she?"

He leaned back, his mind having cued into the effort she was making to now keep her mouth restrained. "She's well kept. She won't be stealing anything more."

Cheeks tight, lip curled, Isa gave her attention to the window.

And here came the moment he dreaded, the moment he hoped he wouldn't regret. "The problem with you is I've been too lenient."

"What?"

"I've permitted you to speak to me as no other would. Speak without being asked. Engage without being recognized." His voice took a tone that he rarely used on Isa, he had little need to. It was the only way he could push the words past his lips. "It's elevated you far beyond any servant. Now here you are demanding truths."

Mouth quivering, Isa shook her head and made to speak, but he continued, "I turned a blind eye and deaf ear to so much, Isa." Edward stepped close, kissing the tip of her nose, threading one finger through her hair. If there was a thread left between the two of them, it would soon be severed. He drew in a breath, committing himself. "When I did finally listen it was too late. Someone suffered greatly for my shortcomings." He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to hers. "I can't—" He swallowed. "I can't permit you to wander free. Honeycutt was right about Chalaih. God forbid he be right about you."

Isa's hands, having clasped to his wrists, went lax and fell to the bed.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

* * *

Alone. Forced into her new room like a caged beast. He couldn't make her love it this way.

With bitterness, Isa considered the situation: the King had wanted her to choose him over Essica . . . but he had already chosen Honeycutt over her.

Lord Honeycutt, a no-nothing nuisance that was now a sharp thorn.

And where was Essica now? Dear God, not in the dungeon below the Palace walls. That dark, horrid hole. Was she hungry? Isa was, but she couldn't bring herself to eat. Was she cold? Isa was, though the fire's warmth touched her skin, it reached no further. The pond inside her threatened to freeze over, she fought it back with heated thoughts.

The hollow of her stomach coiled and twisted over the thought that it was most likely her own carelessness which raised suspicions. Being caught nearly red handed, had she put away the key? Had she talked in her sleep?

And why Lord Honeycutt? Her mind was taxed too heavily to sort it out. That bit of knowledge was like a morsel of food narrowly out of reach.

She needed to close her eyes, rest, but sleep wouldn't come.

During the night she peeled off her stale clothing, having no desire to dress in such absurd fabrics. The dress that Essica had given her was suitable now. Though unacceptable, even lewd, per Masen standards, it clung to her tightly and made her feel as if she were close to home.

Once dressed, she pulled the knife free and curled up on the pile of clothing near the fire. He might have found Essica's, but he had no knowledge of hers. Essica was such a true, deep friend to keep such a thing a secret. The fine tip of the blade scratched a light red trail along the skin of her forearm. What would it feel like to be cut with it? The lines on her forearm faded, but the lines on the floor merely caught the firelight, sending out small snaggletooth shadows from the peaked edges.

Morning came, and Sue brought her food. Slices of pear, crisp bacon, a loaf of cracked wheat bread, broth, and a glass of wine. A meal often prepared for members of the Royal House while they were sick.

Isa chuckled—she was hardly a member of the Royal House.

Taking up the knife, she fed the pears piece by piece into the fire. Each piece fizzling and sizzling as the heat slowly boiled out the juice. Once the fire's raging appetite had consumed the last of the food, filling the room with the fatty essence of bacon and all else, she stood.

There was little she could do here, wasn't there? She had no influence over the King. All she had was her self-appointed task at hand of gaining a footing with Aro—no doubt much more difficult to see to now—and guilt which she wished to abate. A sapling desire for some manner of justice attempting to take hold seeking out some great right to enact in order to correct the many wrongs, but there was nowhere for it to grow.

Except . . . there was.

At the thought, a dark strangeness inside stirred, bringing with it realization, a solution. There was a time and a place. Laying in the strange light of the room she loathed, her only living connection to home gone, it seemed sensible. Almost logical.

Essica was right—there were things that needed to be done. The Tree of Lords would meet in two days time. Between now and then she would play the game right. She would return to her duties.

Until then, she catered to her chores as best as she could from within the confines of the Northern Wing. Not for the illusion of normalcy, but for distraction, for balance. Her mind kept spinning over what was to come, seeing the disastrous outcome and weighing it against the necessity of it. Either way, she would lose. But this way . . . her loss carried with it a gain.

ooo

Midweek arrived, and when she woke, Isa puzzled over how strangely calm she felt. How detached she was. The sense that her heart was split in two now shifted and she felt as if the whole of her being was now divided. The sensible side, the one that clung to the King and cared for his needs, was silent.

Noon came.

Then one-o'clock.

Two-o'clock.

Minutes before Three, she readied for her usual duty. Silver tray. Five wine glasses. With the hem of her dress she polished the rims, removing all smudges and marks.

The guards at the Strategy Room stood aside. She entered.

First, the King. His touch—fingertip to fingertip—didn't shake her resolve nor did it thaw the ice and turn her against her decision. But she smiled pleasantly.

Lord Herring—who adverted his eyes from her at every opportunity in order to show his disgust—treated her no different.

She then served Daae, who ignored her merely out of expectation from the others. His efforts didn't carry any of the malice which Herring's had.

To Honeycutt, she offered the fourth glass. A voice, merely a faint whisper in the far reach of her other mind, warned her against her actions. She could tip the glass, let it tumble to the ground, hell-ward bound. All apologies. But she didn't.

 _Four Silver for the Honey Lord._ It was the greater message it would send to others who were watching, waiting, that she strived for now.

Honeycutt, with brilliant gray eyes so pale they looked nearly white, nodded once with a slight curl to his lips.

This was her only way out. Simply fleeing wasn't enough. She wanted to carve her name into stone and set fire to the falls as she went over the water's edge.

Pale gray eyes darted to hers with the look of absolute irritation. The eyes of the man who saw too much. The mind of a man who knew too much.

For Essica, Isa set the tainted glass on the table in front of his wizened eyes and went about filling it with cold detachment, as if they weren't her hands, as if she hadn't reached for his ankle to pull him over the rim into the froth below.

With a curtsy and a smile for the King, Isa seated the wine flask on her tray and left the room. The clink of crystal on silver was accented by the sound of Lord Honeycutt twirling the stem between his fingers, the gold of his ring clunking loudly.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

* * *

The solitude of Isa's room—the vast openness, the King sleeping not too far away but not speaking to her all the same, a bird outside somewhere pecking madly for a grub—made her restless. Sleep came in strange spurts, a small drop here, a moment of mindlessness there.

In a groggy haze, when the ceiling felt too close and the walls too near, she snuck from her room. Though barefoot with her shoes in hand, the floor creaked in the spot nearest the door which had her Keeper on his feet. He gave a look, one that said he barely cared because sleep, even in a stiff chair, was preferable. Yet he followed silently as she made her way down the hall and through, to the outside.

The sun had begun to rise, sending out long fingers of shade across the courtyard. Isa had no interest in waking Sue. She wanted to see Pearl. The Keeper followed closely. Luckily, Pearl was up and alone, washing strips of fabric in a bin of steaming water. Her hands so rough with work that the heat didn't burn.

"What happened?" Isa asked, nudging her way toward helping. "When they took her, what did they say?"

The brown wool of Pearl's bodice tightened as she crouched to run the strips through the water. "You're no longer a servant. Your room has been emptied. I've parceled your things. They're in the main entry."

Isa knelt beside her, shoving her face near the pail, forcing Pearl to meet her eyes. "Pearl, please!"

With the voice of a mother scolding a child, Pearl sniped, "They found something belonging to the King in her room."

"What was it?"

"A paper. Now hush." Pearl stood, collecting the wash bucket by the handle. "You need to go. Don't bother yourself over her, there's nothing you can do. Do I need to remind you that you've given yourself to the King. You have an agreement and you must keep it."

Isa followed her down the hall, her Keeper trailed behind. She kept her voice low. "A document? What do you mean?"

"They came looking. First in your room. They found a rolled up parchment tied with a band in hers. They found her, and that was it."

"Did she say anything to you? Give you anything? Leave anything behind?"

"No."

But it made little sense. Why, of all the things, would Essica go after the plans? She had never even been allowed to enter the North Hall. So that meant she arrived at the North Hall and managed to enter the King's room and find something she had voiced no interest in finding? None of it came together soundly, Isa wasn't nibbling that fetid bit.

Pearl shoved open the back door to gain access to the swill trough.

"Does her Uncle know?" Isa called out.

Shoulders tensed, Pearl wrung water from the strips and hung them to dry over a length of rope strung between a tree and a rock. As she did so, Isa caught sight of a stitched initial: a brilliant purple on one damp white strip that read: LEH.

Isa almost touched a finger to the worn threads. "LEH? Lord Honeycutt?" she asked.

Pearl rubbed her hands together, flinching. "Yes."

Suddenly, Isa's skin felt crisp like she had stood near a fire for too long and came away with a heat burn. "Is he still ill?"

"Very."

"What do you mean? "Very."" It had been three days since she had slipped the drops into his wine. It was supposed to be a small, harmless dose. Surely he wasn't still ill from that.

"Now he's coughing up blood. The doctor doesn't believe he's going to make it much longer."

As Pearl worked, Isa stood looking out over the distant pale blue hill tops, their peaks sheathed with mist. Essica, one of her own countrymen, was imprisoned. Honeycutt, the one whom Isa had willingly poisoned, was on his deathbed. This wasn't how things were supposed to go.

"In you go." Pearl snapped Isa out of her thoughts.

Turning, Isa found Pearl standing with the door held wide as the Keeper stood mere feet away. Isa stepped inside, giving an apology, trying not to be swallowed by the gaping mouth of guilt with its many rows of teeth, her mind trying to race around and find a way to fix everything.

There, in front of her, was the small parcel: Isa's few belongings wrapped with an apron, the belt strands forming a bow of a messy sort.

Pearl let the door close, putting her and the Keeper out and Isa in.

Isa snatched up the bundle in her hands. Inside was the hair barrette her father had given her when she was young, before she was anointed as a Fianta; a river stone that was carved with her family's initial; and a page from a book which belonged to her Gibant so long ago. Now together, sheathed in white.

It was as if she were cradling the dead.

Wiping at her cheeks, she ran down the hallway, tucking the bundle under one arm. The outside door opened behind her, loud footsteps pursued, but she darted through the side door. Thankful to Pearl, she was able to slip away to the stables, leaving her Keeper and the King far behind.

ooo

By the time Isa arrived in Pruitt the sun had risen straight overhead. The horse she had stolen—a cinnamon, short haired mare—was as in need of rest as she was.

The village of Pruitt was simply designed: a few crosshatch streets populated with rows of wood structures. Signs dangling from posts, horses leashed to staffs, hotch boys journeying about with buckets of feed and water to earn a trei or two.

All she knew of Aurrie was what Essica had told her: he ran a business: Forks Tavern and Keep. The horse clod through the streets as Isa asked several passer-bys its location. Even here she was seen as so different there was no cordiality to be given, save for one boy who seemed not to know better. He pointed with a grimy finger and offered to see to her horse as well.

"Ma chon trei." Charging double.

Only after dismounting and handing the reigns and two coins to the hotch boy did Isa consider what she was doing. By now the King had known she was gone, and her decision to leave was so spontaneous, the need to leave so compulsive and without any thought, that she hadn't yet formed a solid plan. Her body moved apart from her mind.

Forks Tavern was easy to find once Isa rounded the corner, following the hotch's wordless directions. The tavern stood alone, at the edge of a cluster of trees, nudged against a crop of rocks. The stench of swamp came from nearby. A vine, now dead, climbed along the trellis that shielded the front entry from the sun.

Isa stood at the door, trying to garner the gumption to lift her hand to the brass ring. What was it about knocking on a strange door that put her so ill at ease? Not knowing what was behind the door, or knowing that this was yet one step further from what her life was and one step closer to some strange unknown.

She clapped the ring once, her hand in the air to strike it down again when the door was pulled open but a crack. A rush of dusty air fluttered her hair. A man, much older with fluffy brown for eyebrows, stood there, half his face pressed close to the crack, waiting for her to speak.

"I've come to see—" Chalaih? "Aurrie."

He hesitated for a moment, but said nothing before pulling the door open wide.

The room was musty, the air stale, as if it hadn't been cleaned in a considerably long time. Isa's eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness. Tables were spread about, most empty. Candles filled sconces, casting small pools of light. Ladies of the Night were on duty even now as the sunlight filtered through the narrow slits for windows. Not an eye turned to her.

Aurrie stood behind a wooden counter in front of a stash of barrels, a cloth in his hand poised to wipe. Even in this dreary setting he looked far more content than that day at the Palace with a cold Essica clinging to him. He looked up as Isa approached the counter.

"Do you remember me? From the Palace?"

He lifted one eyebrow.

"Essica has been taken into the custody of the King."

Aurrie nodded, but continued to fuss over the little mess on the counter. Assessing, thinking?

"They accused her of stealing, of spying. Ridiculous things. Absurd things."

Still not responding, Aurrie wiped crumbs into his hand and then tossed them into a pot on the floor. Isa sat on a wooden stool, its seat smooth from extended use. "I thought you should know."

"I've heard." Aurrie turned away and stepped around a corner, his tone far from concerned. On top of the strange state Isa floated in, she couldn't make any sense of this moment.

"Don't you have at least a bit of concern for your umbernage?"

He stopped arranging canteens for that.

"Essica, your niece."

"Isa O'Mailley. Are you still living in the dark? I am no more Essica's Uncle than I am your father." He touched his fingers to the base of his neck as he said that last word, a sign of respect for the dead which Isa hadn't seen in a considerable time.

"Everyone has secrets, hmm?" Was no one who they said they were? Was everyone in on conspiracies and plots? Everyone about her was up to something, into something. Everyone else had dedicated themselves to a cause far beyond their own interests.

Aurrie stood, as if shrugging of a heavy weight. "Don't let concern for Essica distract you from what it is you've agreed to."

He pulled a small flask from under the counter, filling a metal cup to the brim. Isa thanked him, absently, and waited for his back to be turned before sniffing it, incredulous of the content. It was hard, sour. The taste it left was absolutely vile.

"So you're not concerned? I think she was falsely accused. I think Lord—" And suddenly she didn't want to say it. She knew what she had done.

"Essica offered her services knowing what she risked." He motioned to Isa as he said this. "All of the others have."

A gross unease slithered through her. "How many others?"

Leaning onto the counter, he dropped his voice so his words were barely audible. "Aprons, skin-ink, ribbons, slips of paper. Did she leave anything behind?"

His gaze, intense behind the wrinkles and rough skin, made her pulse quicken and not in a pleasant lust-filled way that had consumed her for so long with the King.

"I don't know. I wasn't able to check. What would it mean if she left something?" The room grew smaller and further away, the libation now causing her mind to swim.

"If she leaves her ribbon it means she's accomplished a mission. Her paper, she's passing it to the next."

The door creaked, sending a shaft of brilliant light through the dark. Aurrie stood back, snapping up so quickly that Isa jumped.

"Can we free her?" Words were hard pressed to spit out.

"I was helping someone and look where it led. With Essica and her brother's influence silenced, I have no leverage."

She leaned forward, the edge of the counter pressing the flat of the knife against her chest. "I have leverage."

He chuckled. "Feminine wiles will only get you so far. This is political."

Isa looked around to the other patrons: the man sleeping in the far corner, a heavily cloaked figure gripping a spoon like a shovel.

"Where can I find the antidote for the silver?"

He took up her glass. "Tap is up. I believe, Love, you need to go."

"You believe I'm unable?"

"I believe you have an errand to run to the alchemist." Nodding toward the door, he gave her brief directions and bid her farewell. When she stood and extended her hand to shake, he left through the back door.

Entering the daylight, she questioned her sanity and her plan. What was she even doing this for? Didn't Lord Honeycutt deserve to die?

She was gone.

It struck her like an afterthought. She had left the wretched King Edward and maybe, just maybe, there was no need to go back.

The sun had begun to creep past its highest point. If Isa left soon she would make it before the evening meal. Or... perhaps she should venture South, ferry her way over the End Sea and, dare she think it?

She crossed the narrow bridge and followed along to the raised walkway. No one gave her any notice as they passed by, bushels of greenery in hand and cages of chickens in tow. Isa closed her eyes, and for a moment, with the sounds of simple living and boots on wood planks, she imagined she was in Dwyer. Not a servant, not a courtesan, not amid endless chaos and the grime of narrow, dark places. When the breeze blew, causing the fabric of her skirt to flutter, she felt as if she could open her eyes and be home.

But then a young boy cried out for his mother with an accent much like the King's, and the illusion was ruined.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

* * *

Arm and arm, as if they were close companions, Isa and her Keeper ascended the main stairs together. He held tight to her, eyes sharp. She felt nothing in response. This wasn't her returning to the warm bosom of her life's love.

Instead of walking to her room, Isa's Keeper walked her through the main hall, to the King's private dining room. There, the one whom she wanted to see stood at the grand North window. Two guards, their shaped chest plates suggesting they were female and not male, stood at wait inside.

Surety and confidence dissipated into jitters and unease. This wasn't quite what she had imagined upon her return. Privacy would have been nice. She would make it work, however.

"I had faith that they would bring you back."

The door shut behind her, but she didn't walk in further. "I found my own way."

"I see. Where have you been?"

"Thought I'd travel the countryside, breathe in some fresh air."

In an effort to ease her tension she set to the task of gathering near-empty plates. She caught sight of his reflection in a wine glass. His head turned slightly.

"Is that so?" he asked with an edge of grim darkness in his voice. "Why did you return, then?"

Isa's voice seemed controlled, but as she engaged the King in conversation her heart raced, her composure crumbled a little. "Where else am I to go? I live here, do I not?"

"I've assigned your Keeper to you for a reason. Out of genuine concern for your safety. Do you not care?"

"For my safety? Don't be droll." Isa took up a cloth napkin and began to wipe the surface of the table. The floor creaked as she busied about the room, trying to muster courage to broach the subject of 'Essica' and 'Honeycutt' as he watched.

"Stop fussing about."

Ignoring him, she brushed crumbs onto an empty plate.

"Isa." That tone again.

Her hand stilled immediately. "It seems I've upset you today. Apologies. Here, let me get you some drink."

She moved toward the buffet where wine sat, but his voice whipped out again.

Throat tense, mind spinning, she explored options as she found her way to a nearby chair. She had to figure out a way to gain the upper hand against an enraged and paranoid King. It made the fine hairs on her arms stand.

She had the knife, the poisons, the antidote . . . but none of this helped her feel better. All this, in fact, made her feel all the more worse for her blame-turn-heavy-guilt. The pressure of these things against her chest irritated her skin like a hair shirt.

"You are here and not in irons, much to the disapproval of the Tree of Lords. They are of the opinion that you belong in a cell." He paced as he spoke.

Biting the thick of her tongue, Isa fought back tears and a fight.

"I've told you," he continued, "that I have pushed many people quite far with my inclusion of you in the Royal House. I challenged my father as he took away the people closest to you. I never forgave him for his treatment of you, not even after he took his last breath. I took you in, and I've loved you . . . In return for sparing your life what is it that you've done? You've betrayed me! You gave that _girl_ access to my room, access to things best left uncovered—"

"I did no such thing—"

"And that," he paused, daring her to interrupt with his glaring eyes. "After you had already grown so distant from me that I no longer know you from Eve—"

Her body crackled in response. "You did not tell me what had gone on. I had to sneak out, away from my _nanny_. In order to find out what had even happened! And now, I'm still none too sure!"

Arms crossed, the King walked to the window again. Heated breath clouded the glass where he stood.

Isa followed him, the venom inside eating through her self control. "There are many things you choose not to tell me. You've driven me away. If there has been any distance it's because of you. Secrets everywhere. For all I know you're the one who killed your father. For all I know the idea to take me from my home might have very well been his idea."

The King's nostrils flared and he lunged at her. Isa jumped back, meeting the high back of a chair. His hands were on her, rough, and he grasped her wrists. Spinning and shoving, he pinned them to the wall over her head.

"Bit your tongue."

"Before you what . . . cut it out?"

He growled loudly, squeezing her wrists tight. "Is that what your people do to traitors? Cut out their tongues so they cannot speak their lies?"

Her body, so attune to excitement of conflict, wanted him to fall into her with passion—something they hadn't shared in days.

"No," she hissed, desire and rage battling for center stage in her voice. "We killed them. How else do you imagine your kind remained so ignorant of my countrymen and our ways?"

The King pressed himself against her. "What more do you want from me?" He seethed, his lip twitching.

"I want answers."

"To what?"

Isa balled her fists tightly. If his hands weren't restraining her she would have lashed out at him again, drawing more than a few drops of blood.

"Why Essica?" she demanded. "What made her a target?"

"And what of you? Feigning innocence, pretending that she's not a vile thief? Ever since she came into my service she's been watched with incredulous eyes. Without me, you'd've been slaughtered long ago and dumped into a dark pit like so many others. Why is me wanting you, me turning a blind eye to you, not _enough_ for you?"

And now, there were tears pricking at Isa's eyes and cheeks. Not for a long lost 'us' that never truly was, but for what she still had to do. She wished there was another way. It would be a low strike for her, that much she knew.

"What do you want from me?" he begged softly, his hands still on her wrists, holding her captive.

When she said, "Set Essica free," she knew the answer would be, "No." Not only would the answer be no, but it would salt wounds that ran full and ripe.

"It's out of my hands, now," he whispered.

"You're the King. You can do whatever you want . . . . She's all I have left."

His face fell momentarily, but then he tensed again. "Her guilt was certain."

"You trust Honeycutt over me?"

The harshness in his eyes softened and his grip eased minutely.

How twisted was it that Isa didn't want the tension to abate? It made everything so easy, being so close and seething with anger. Their mouths were separated only by inches, if she leaned forward and touched his lips with hers they'd . . . .

Then all would be forgotten. They could pour their spite and malevolence into each other, touch for touch and thrust for thrust. But those pleasurable intrigues were what created this trouble. She grabbed ahold of her resolve, pulling out from between the figurative sheets.

"Would you do it for Honeycutt?" The question sounded strange, as if it left her mouth spoken by another.

Pushing away, the King stepped back, mouth agape. He glanced over his shoulder to the guards. "Leave us."

They did so, quickly, and soon it was only the two of them.

Rubbing her wrists to ease the ache, Isa added, "It's unfortunate he's so ill. I know how important he is to you and the Kingdom. The land, the arrangements. He's connected, affluent." That severed part of herself spoke for her.

Silence.

"His ailment is quite unsightly. Coughing, his humors imbalanced. Suffering greatly until the end finally comes."

Watching from the corner of his eye, seeming to size her up, the King turned away. As he walked slowly, Isa pressed her hand over her heart, trying to still the frantic beat.

When she felt it slow she continued, "Let Essica go. I'll give you medicine for Honeycutt. All will be as it were." The darkest of lies.

"The cure?" By now the King was at the far side of the room. "Is it in your boogie box?"

"A box? No."

"And what happens if I say no? What then?" He walked along an invisible arc, likely spinning a plan of his own. "She means that much?"

His tone, candy sweet, made her question his tactics. Truth or lie?

"Yes, she does. She's the only connection I have to my life."

"From your boogie box what is it that you'll pull? Why is it that you believe you can make him well?"

"It's a serum."

"Does it have a name?"

"Yes."

"Which is . . . ?"

"You're questioning me while he lays dying?"

He smiled, still traveling his arc, now by the West Wall. "Stop this pretense. I know you have no such ability."

"You doubt me?"

"It's a clever plan, I dare say. Poisoning Honeycutt—" he stopped walking, eyes on her, taking in her reaction. "And then claim to have the antidote for him in order to free your friend."

The pulse of his shoulder gave away the fact that he was rubbing his fingers together behind his back.

"What you're not considering is that, perhaps, I care nothing for Honeycutt. Perhaps I want him dead. Perhaps this works out quite well for me. Essica, a danger, is gone. Honeycutt deceased by natural means. Both in one week?"

Now Isa was struck with stupidity. The possibility of the King not truly caring hadn't occurred to her. This was not a thought out plan. This was spontaneity at its worst.

And now all of her cards were laid out on the table, easy to read, the game lost before it even started.

Slowly, the King continued the circle of the room, footsteps steady. Calculating.

The longer he walked, the more tortured Isa became. The yarn that held her together was pulled free, further and further, with each step the King took. She slumped to the floor, shaky and weak in a pile of pale satin. Now he was only playing with a broken toy.

Full circle. He crossed to her, slow and sure of himself. Crouching, he lifted her face to his and wiped at her cheeks in a way that was once caring, but now a mere mockery of anything reassuring.

"This pains me," he whispered. He kissed her cheeks, one and then the other, and brought his mouth to her ear. "As if you had run me through with a blade, the very center of my heart, when I found you."

Of all the sad, pathetic things to feel, she wanted to apologize. To actually say, "I'm sorry," and make it all go away. But she resisted. Hadn't she known all along that she toyed with an executioner's axe?

The King's lips ran a trail of comforting heat along her cheek. "Don't you know how much I understand you? Your struggle? Your spent heart?"

His kind words were salt. The pain of it distracting, drawing her attention away. Isa's wounds ran deep, festering with ghastly shades. She wanted nothing more than for him to understand.

There they sat, eye to eye.

With a roaming hand he traced over her hip, her side. His hand traveled around the curve of her breast. Then, in a moment where the earth shifted, before she were able to respond, the King dipped his fingers into her cleavage and he pulled the knife from its scabbard.

He turned it over, studying the finely carved handle, tipping it so that the candlelight caught the blade with a bright shine. "You still want to taste my blood? Hmm? Would you have found the strength to do it this time?"


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

* * *

With Isa's door now locked from the outside, all she could do was pace, and stew, and glare through the window. The cool of the glass had numbed her forehead, but it had done little else. She stared blankly into the distance, waiting for the arrival of Lord Aro.

Instead of dousing the animus inside as the King had hoped, being locked up had turned her into a feral beast. Was he hoping to turn her into a delicate dainty in his own castle?

The only thing that had made these few days tolerable was her intention of discussing issues with Lord Aro when he arrived. Surely the King would let her out to play, then. She would make the most out of her time once away from her fanciful prison cell.

So long as Essica remained alive, though no doubt in a deplorable state, Isa would continue to seek out a means to free her. If Essica's head found its way into a basket after the drop of the guillotine, then all was lost.

And then, the moment she had waited for finally arrived. The front gate swung wide, and in came a pale gray horse, stepping high. The first of the Denali entourage.

The chamber door opened.

Upon hearing the familiar rhythm of the King's steps, she turned, a frigid smile fixed in place. "My Lord," she said, only dipping her head slightly.

"The Denali entourage has arrived."

He held his arm out for her to take but as she did so he slipped his hand around her waist instead.

"Is that your native dress?"

"It is."

With his foot, he kicked the door. It swung shut, clanging loudly. His arms around her, his tantalizing heat. Needing no invite, she directed her angst toward him. Blessed relief.

His mouth, the way he moved insistently against her, lost in their rhythm, the one that only they knew and no other could ever.

It was like a dance, a dance of tongues, a dance of wandering hands and touching fingertips. Perfect and sensual. The way it should always be but had not always been.

Stumbling, thirsty and taking their fill of pleasure's drink, they found their way to the bed. He was compliant under her, giving no protest as she hurriedly undid the ties of his cuirass and undershirt.

How she missed the feel of him—hard and thick—in her hands, wanting her, all for her. She took him in her mouth greedily, as if she could assure herself of what he claimed was the truth with each stroke of her hand and glide of her mouth.

His hands gripped her hair as he thrust his hips upward, spurring her to take him in further. She did so with delight, her hands gripping and stroking. Having been denied pleasure for an endless week, he didn't hold out long. He tasted as glorious as he sounded, groaning out his tense relief between gasps of breath.

And then the illusion fell away.

She sat on the edge of the bed, watching him breathe hard. When he reached for her, she pulled back. Confusion crossed his face at first, then anger followed by quick resignation.

Had she gone too far with that slight movement out of his reach? Quick, he shoved up from the bed. She didn't even struggled as she fell back, him looming over her like an animal ready to bite the true hand that feeds and rip the flesh.

But sensibility seemed to touch him. He moved away, not breaking his silence, and responded to her curtness with a stiff upper lip, anger showing a small bit in the crease of his forehead and the set of his chin.

And yet, he took her hand with soft care and tucked it inside his elbow. As if a true couple, they walked down the hall and made their way to the front entry and the courtyard beyond.

The processional entry would have been intriguing and certainly something to see with its pageantry of color and showing of militaristic precision as the guard marched in, but the armored front soon cleared the gate and then came into view the carriages holding the Lords and Ladies.

Wench Tanya of the Eleventh Quarter was sitting in luxury somewhere behind the silken curtains and embroidered trim. Isa raced through the possibilities of how the coming days should unfold. _Ten Gold for the Greenest of Gowns._ Hate was a kind word.

Isa's toes curled as did the hand that was drawn through the King's arm. She wanted to spit fire and breathe fury. The chilly wisp of breath that escaped her in its stead enraged her further.

When the procession had finally wound its full way like a slithering snake through the main gate, the King dared to pry her hand from his arm. "Remember that my heart belongs to you."

 _Ten Gold for the Lecherous Liege._ The vindictive half had been set loose.

The King stepped away from Isa, and her ears rang loud and piercing as he did so, as if her senses were screaming out. Each step was like a spike to her heart. With a warm smile he embraced the noble Ladies and clasped hands with each of the Lords.

Spite filled eyes were on the search for Wench Tanya, whom Isa found before she was announced. Wearing pale blue and fine silk, the wench looked good enough to skewer for desert. What was it they called that overly colorful sweetie? A cupcake?

And, ahh, Isa couldn't keep her mouth from twisting into a slight smile as Lord Aro stepped from his carriage. The man of the hour, the one she wanted to see.

All she needed were a few moments to exchange words and make promises. Her shadowing hawk-eyed Keeper be damned.

Masen was no longer a home, it never was. Even though the King was done with her, she wasn't going to dive into the murky depths alone. She was going to cull her way through the muck, dragging Tanya by that bounty of hair.

And what if Aro said there was nothing he could do? Perhaps one Aro would kindly move to accept the Pillary Proposal in exchange for Isa's own willing service? A sacrifice to destroy the over-joyous hopes of The One Wench. If Isa were destined to go over the falls, why go alone?

But the boisterous crowd of peoples was not to involve her. As the King saw to his business with the Lords and Ladies, including said Wench, Isa's Keeper collected her and escorted her upstairs.

No matter. She had waited quite long; a small bit of time longer wouldn't hurt.

She spent the new hours straightening, tidying. Her hands found pleasure in wiping away dust and webs. The garments the King had given—which Isa had rejected and tossed into a pile—found a home in the wardrobe. Soon Sue came with a tray of food and Meade.

"Lord Honeycutt is home now and on the mend," she said, a touch of gratitude in her voice. It seems the sly slip of the vial in the cloth napkin days before was welcomed.

"Is he now? That should fill the King with dread." Isa, hands straightening a picture frame, glanced over her shoulder. "I tell you, Sue. I'm surprised my head hasn't rolled since then."

Sue situated the items on Isa's writing desk. "Angel is doing well, as is her fiancé."

That was enough to cause Isa to pause, her heart suddenly thrown to people she hadn't thought of for days. "Good. That's good. No harm's come to him then?" Her voice was high and tight as she spoke.

"He's better. Soon he'll be working in the stable."

And the bits of a buoyant feeling that Isa had shattered completely. "Were we one less in the stable?"

"Did you think your fleeing the Keep stunt was going to go unnoticed? Unpunished? We're several down. In the last week we've lost you, Humbert, and Bartholomew and that's only of the Servant's Hold.

"What does that mean?"

"Rumors fly the way of the dove. But they think it was your Essica. That's why they really took her." Sue collected up the bedding.

Immediately after Sue left, the King entered.

Mind on things tucked away in guilty corners of her blackened heart, Isa embraced him when he came close. Her memory waned for a few moments. He tried to speak and she silenced him with her mouth.

Where ever the moment might have led was cut short by a knock on the door.

Together, they made it almost to the great dining hall in full silence, but before they turned the last corner the King paused. "Isn't it I who should be vehemently angry with you?"

"Aren't you?"

"Best behavior, please. Don't step out of line." His words were hasty and rough, gritting on Isa's ears like a pumice stone.

His hold on her crooked arm tightened considerably, as if to caution her. Then the doors were opened, and there around the table stood a number of guests so large it was astonishing to see.

His firm grip didn't ease in the slightest. He walked her to the far end of the room, his face assuming a stately composure whereas hers still felt so thin it was surely showing the veins underneath.

After kissing her hand, the King urged Isa to her seat. Standing tall, noble, the very air in the room drawn toward him like water rushing to fill a void, he took place next to her, at the head of the table.

"Welcome, Ladies and Lords of Denali." He lifted his wine glass—filled before he entered the room—to toast as he spoke.

Isa's heart beating wildly choked the breath from her. She gripped the arm of her seat, eyes wide and fixed on the glass in his hand. Who other than her had prepared it?

Isa forced her eyes away, to the attractive setting of pears and cheese on the table in front of her. The King's glass was not possibly tainted as Essica was not here. Isa lifted fingers to her belly assuring herself that the Illian was still there and no one had taken it to put it to use.

Throughout the meal Isa kept a keen eye on the King, watching for twitches and any flinch that showed a sign of illness. Juniper entered, Samantha came and went. Neither wore the ribbon. It still put her mind ill at ease. Were there others with intentions against the King at hand?

Of course there were, a silly question.

Isa paid little attention to the conversation at hand until someone tapped at their wine glass in order to offer up a toast.

"To the King! Our offensive host. May his marriage to the grand Wench Tanya—" Isa only imagined those words, which put a smile on her lips. What was actually said came out all the more dull: ". . . Our gracious host . . . Lady Tanya Houk of the Eleventh Quarter. Soon to be Queen of Masen. With this Divine Union we will finally see an end to more than a century of political tensions and mistrust."

"Come now, Lord Kistner. Tis merely a show of good faith." A noblewoman spoke this time, chastisement as thick in her voice as the artful pile of hair on her head. "It remains up to the decisions of the King and residing House Lords as to whether a marriage would resolve much of anything."

Lord Kistner, still standing with his drink held high, dismissed her words as if they weren't spoken. But Isa latched onto them—clearly she was not the only one who was vehemently against the arrangement. It gave her a small spark of hope inside. Perhaps the way out wouldn't be met with opposition at every turn.

The Lady who spoke, her neck dripping with pearls and glittery gems, looked to the King as the toast commenced. As her eyes made the journey she caught Isa's gaze and smiled.

Blush rushed to Isa's cheeks as the unnamed Lady tipped her glass to her instead of the King.

And as the Lady's eyes had found Isa, so Isa's eyes found Aro's. He tipped his glass to her as well.

Juniper came around with a flask to refill. The King held his hand out to keep her from pouring and whispered quietly. After the red wine was served, she returned to the buffet table.

She stood, back arched, her busy hands obscured by the drape of one sleeve and a tumble of hair that fell from a blue ribbon. Panic rushed through Isa and she leapt up, making her way to Juniper, snatching the implement from her hand. An infusion stick with which to seat a cube of sugar over a glass.

"Palish!" Isa took up the infuser. "I'll see to that."

Eyes wide, a skim of tears ready to spill over, the girl only stared.

And it was then that Isa saw the ribbon was purple, not blue. "Sorry. Didn't mean to upset you. The King favors his wine poured by me, however." A thin veil for her absurdity.

"Yes Ma'am." Juniper bowed and stepped aside, permitting Isa to take over.

As Isa took up the sugar and infuser, arranging the items on the tray, she scolded herself for being so hasty. Juniper was born in Masen, as fair as a lily and as innocent. She had no damning tattoo on the lower of her calf. Nothing Dwyer in her from head to toe. It was all Isa, bringing overwrought and strangely placed concern on an otherwise innocent situation.

When Isa carried the tray of liquor and sugar infusion to the King, he met her eyes with a questioning. She shook her head, attempting a smile. "More care should be taken when handling such dinnerware."

ooo

After the meal was consumed the Lords and Ladies adjourned to the outdoors. The gardens were freshly primped, lanterns oiled and lit, making the entire setting look picturesque, almost surreal.

Isa stayed behind, near the stone steps, watching with narrowed eyes as the King walked with the Harlot Tanya. Though it was cold out, fiery breath came.

"Lady O'Mailley."

Isa turned, expecting to see only Lord Aro, but found him with the Noblewoman who spoke out of turn during the toast.

"This is Lady Quinnet. My step mother."

The announcement gave Isa pause before an uptick of surprise swept through her. She extended her hand which was taken gratefully.

"Is Eustice here?"

Lady Quinnet shook her head. "No my dear, we thought it best he not come."

Isa nodded with false understanding.

"I've heard of his sister's trouble," Lady Quinnet said as she brought Isa close, wrapping one arm around her shoulder, almost curling around her like a leaf. She seemed almost motherly.

"She was arrested. Charges of treason." Isa looked around. No one seemed to pay them any mind as they walked behind a row of vining florals growing thick and green on a trellis.

"Rumors are flying," Lady Quinnet prompted. "What have you heard?"

"Theft . . . and she was accused of murdering Sir Gisson."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, and . . . ."

Lord Aro walked close, the soft fabric of his shirt brushing against Isa's arm. The contact made her aware of the cold. She shivered from it.

"And what?" he prompted. "For us to act we need to know."

"I don't believe she did such."

Lady Quinnet drew the wandering trio to a stop. "She didn't?" Snapping back her hand, she glared before presenting a friendly face again.

"She was assigned a duty, did she not fulfill it?"

"No," Isa said, flustered, cursing her carelessness. This wasn't a trial of innocence and guilt. They weren't here to spring Essica free. "that's not what I mean to say."

"Then what is it you are trying to say?"

Isa looked around again, searching for Keeper or the King, but they were hidden by a cluster of sculptures. Christ and a lamb, an asp and a staff. "I think someone staged her arrest. Someone else stole a document from the King and then placed it in her room."

"False accusations?"

Lady Quinnet's hand found Isa's shoulder again. Leaning forward, she met her gaze on the level. Her eyes searched Isa's, as if trying to pluck secrets from her thoughts.

It was tempting to talk openly about such things, but there was a vicious edge of caution striking through Isa's mind. She had trusted too many people as of late.

"It was lovely to meet you." Isa took a step back and extended her hand. "All apologies, but it's important that I speak with Lord Aro about a private matter."

Lady Quinnet drew back, mouth parting slightly. Offense obvious in her eyes. With a gallant turn, the fabric of her dress swished against the shimmering leaves, and she ventured away. Isa watched her go, imagining what the web of associations and connections would look like if it were crafted into a ball and set atop a fount, lit by the moonlight.

"So then . . . ?" Lord Aro spoke, his voice cutting through Isa's fancy.

"I wasn't careful enough."

His hand, wide and firm, pressed to her back. She tried to clear her throat, swallow back the bitterness.

"How do you mean?"

"I was looking for the proposal, to help Essica. I raised suspicions. Honeycutt took notice."

A small group of people passed near, talking in hushed tones, pointing here and there.

"What then?" He asked as his hand began to travel in small circles across her back.

She sighed, skipping the most of what had taken place. "Then the King discovered my knife."

Aro's body rumbled with laughter, the depth of it dancing in the air in strange ways. "Is that so?"

"I didn't tell him anything further, and he didn't . . . you know," her voice dropped to a whisper, "find the Illian Yui."

"Clearly, lest you wouldn't be here walking with me now. You'd be strung out, flayed open. You've at least been spared her fate."

"He would never do such a thing." Isa drew away, mouth agape at the vileness of the thought.

"Ah, but he does. But he has. Do you believe your Essica, found with poison and knife in tow, has been sitting unscathed all this time? No doubt he's done all he could do to draw out her secrets."

A gross chill, like being molested with spider legs, raced through her. "Surely not."

"If it's not too late—"

"Don't you have influence? You said you were capable, that you were involved in many different things in both your country and here. Maybe you can offer him something. Promise him something he wants. The Pillary Proposal, Tanya before her wedding night all trussed up like a duck. Land. Anything?"

He reached out to stroke fingers through her hair. "I might be able to sway your Edward to have mercy. If it's not too late. But there is one thing I must ask of you. A favor, if you will."

Something deep inside told her not to agree, not to open her mouth in acceptance. What if he asked her to take her golden quill to the King? "Am I not already spinning your favors?"

"A business wager, then?"

Isa laughed a little. "I am not a business woman."

"Ahh but you are. You're in the business of treason."

The very notion was offensive. "Taking issue with an enemy is an act of treason?"

"Don't be daft. You've taken to the bed of the one who helped end your family. There's no further a means of treason than that."

And she couldn't argue that, could she?

"Your services . . . for negotiation of Essica's freedom."

A gust of strong wind rattled the trees and sent a shower of small purple leaves down from a Harvest Maple they stood near.

"If I say yes you'll promise Essica's freedom?"

"I promise I'll broach the subject with the King, use my clout to see what type of a response I can garner."

"And if you can't?"

"Then I will still extend my offer first given while in Denali together. I'll take you into my own fold, a sheep among my many."

Isa searched his eyes, heavy lidded and showing age in the creased corners. He wasn't entirely uninviting. Be with him as she was with the King? She looked to his mouth which also held the signs of age, but he wasn't grandfatherly with scores of wrinkles along drawn, thin lips. His mouth was shapely, bold, lips pink akin to a sunset.

Those lips curled with a gentile smile. He stepped back and bowed deeply, one arm braced to his chest. Then he turned and left before Isa could argue,

"Not now!" she called after him.

Lord Aro hurriedly followed the path around and away. Isa watched through the bounty of eggplant shaded leaves. He addressed the King, and the King bowed to the Wench and kissed her hand which made Isa want to spit blood. The two, Lord and King, then walked together through the garden.

Once they were free of the garden gate and inside the wing of the castle, Isa began to follow down the winding side path. Her Keeper was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had found a way to occupy himself with all the wealth of foreign flesh afoot.

"Here a whistle, pet?"

Isa's journey was cut short by one determined Wench Tanya. Her hair twisted about like a crown of snakes.

Isa ignored her words and tried to step around, but the Wench thwarted her efforts by placing herself firmly in the way.

"I won't tolerate a female to be his servant once I am Queen, know that."

Lip curled with a sneer, Isa shoved her aside. There were other things to be seen to, important matters laid in the lap of two men she couldn't trust.

People quickly gathered around, staring past Isa, standing in her way like trees. She shoved through the noble forest, ignoring the words of protest and unladylike curses coming from some female behind her.


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

* * *

Bringing Lord Aro to the Strategy Room had come to Edward on a whim. It was with the purpose of testing a suspicion. For nearly a year Lord Aro had given Edward a sizable bounty of unfulfilled promises and empty answers.

It couldn't continue. The future of Masen hung in the balance. If progress was not made with the Eleventh Quarter then Masen would swing as wildly as the torched remains of a slain highwayman at a crossroads.

"I have it on good authority your time in Telnit was well spent," Lord Aro said as he studied a newly woven maille shirt decorating the statue of a knight.

"Telnit was in need of grain."

"And how kind of you to offer."

To give a sense of governance, to show this was his domain, Edward seated himself, motioning for Aro to do the same.

"Too bad your fraulein is not here. I would love for some wine."

Edward bristled at the foreign reference to Isa. "You requested an audience and here we are, so speak your mind."

"Rumors are like cancers."

"Yes, I've heard enough to last me a lifetime as of late."

"Such as?"

Edward shook his head. "You broached the subject. Let's have it, what rumors do you speak of?"

"The usual, I suppose, for a King."

Grinning, Edward joked, "Purging my whole staff, again, am I?"

Aro's eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing.

"All true of course," Edward mused, his voice full of conviction. "I intend on murdering everyone in my Keep and cleaning the bannisters all alone. My dream."

"Only males again?" Aro's voice was filled with thick disdain. "Or you go for the females as well? An accusation of theft, was it?"

Edward gave Aro a frightful glare.

Aro paid no mind. "If not theft then what was her charge?"

"Since she was taken care of the rumor mill seems to have been silenced as well."

"And by, "taken care of," to what do you refer to?" Aro leaned forward a small bit, giving away his interest in the King's answer.

"Is this really the matter you were wanting to discuss?"

Aro shifted again in his seat. "I am here on behalf of the Second Government of Denali, my good King. I am not here on personal interests. I am only following the orders I have been given. You had requested I relax minds in Denali, to make them more open to your suspect proposal or your marriage to Tanya. I have done so. Here you are, the engagement now officially declared. Yet here I am, still needing to understand what has occurred in recent weeks. Sources have proven untrustworthy. So I come to you."

"Well what is it that you're needing to hear in order to find comfort?"

"What are your intentions? Not with your efforts with Denali, but your need to marry?"

"We've discussed this before. I have been King for a time shy of a year. In this time my efforts to obtain a Queen have led me nowhere. I am also wanting to secure matters with Denali. Move forward, move away." Edward kept his voice calm, but inside he grew agitated. "All of this has been addressed before. There's no need to explore this well-known topic here in private."

"Well, that is what we needed to speak of. There have been a few new developments with Denali."

Edward sat back, the grit of leather rubbing against the arm of his chair. "Yes?"

"They're wanting something more concrete before fully solidifying marital matters."

Scoffing, Edward brought his hand to his chin. "After announcing it? What more solidity can there be after already agreeing to the terms?"

"An exchange of staff."

At this, Edward scowled. "No." It required little thought. The King had seen the way Aro's eyes appraised Isa during their meal. Nothing slipped by him, Aro's intentions were clear.

"No?"

"I will do no such thing. If that's all you came to ask for them I must give my deepest apologies for the waste of your time."

"On behalf of Eustice Quinnet."

Edward's body went rigid in surprise. "Eustice?"

Eustice, Brisbane's previous bargaining chip. With the marriage of Eustice to Lady Quinnet, Masen gained access to the Western Rime which Edward had recently closed to Denali upon finalizing the deal with Telnit. If Eustice withdrew his affiliation, the Rime was no longer under Edward's governance. The bargain with Telnit would be rendered null.

"That's not possible."

"Then Eustice is willing to denounce the original binding agreement that leashed him to the Ninth Quarter. Is that not cause enough?"

"Absolutely not."

"And what, your Lordship, is the reason?"

"Because that would please you . . . greatly."

Aro, with lips pursed in thought, stood and paced through his side of the room. "Perhaps it would not be done for Eustice, but for someone else . . . "

Edward shifted in his seat, bracing both elbows to the table, perked with interest and caution. "For whom?"

Pausing, fingers dipping into a pool of candlewax, Aro made a clucking sound with his tongue. "Your mother, God rest her soul, spoke highly of the young boy she loved whom had such a soft heart and a strong head."

Scoffing with dismay, Edward stood. "Now you're trying to use my own flesh and blood against me? What next? God himself?"

Aro flicked away flakes of dried wax from his fingertips. "Would that work better?"

"Isa," Edward said, now standing by the window, "is no longer a member of the servant staff. She is mine in all ways."

Deeply, Aro laughed. "Oh I'm not requesting Isa. I'm requesting Chalaih. I hear she's caused you trouble. Denali sees this as an opportunity to show your good intentions."

Chalaih. Again, she surfaced. Her very name now causing the King's internal heat to rise. Not in a pleasant way as Isa would do, but in ways that made him unsteady and irate.

When Aro spoke his tone had shifted, onto a new subject, "And of the events taking place to the West?"

"Dart considers my withdrawal from the marriage arrangement with Rose Tugyen to be an insult and an act of economic warfare." He chuckled. "Spite the grain I have given, and the trade for laborers, they have ceased trade with my Western Moiety."

Fingers in the wax, Aro hummed with thought, the sound gravelly in his chest. "A pity. They were a good source for Terebinth lumber."

"And the answer to your next question is no. I will not enter a trade agreement with Denali for Terebinth."

"Perhaps a gift, then, of Terebinth . . . along with the benefit of salving the wounded, angry hearts of the Quinnet family—would be in fair exchange for a young girl's freedom?" Aro delivered the line as if it were a matter of common sense.

Edward turned from the window, nostrils flared. "The Chalaih girl has been done with. She is no longer a person to be discussed."

"And of the lovely young O'Mailley girl soon to be removed from your service?"

Jaw tensing, teeth gritting, Edward took in a cleansing breath. "I'd rather sever my right hand than let you so much as touch my Isa." Hands now tucked into his crossed-over arms, he slicked his thumbs and forefingers together. "If this is the agenda behind your journey here consider it all a waste. No Terebinth. No millet. No Chalaih. No Isa."

Aro, hands held out to placate, bowed slightly. "I see, now, that the acorn has grown into a mighty oak."

Edward scoffed at that. If he had grown into a mighty oak then how is it that a slight female such as Isa had overshadowed the sun?


	31. Chapter 31

Author's Note: Here we are, the home stretch to the end.

No matter how many times I've read this story, I can't help but tear up when I get to these last two chapters. Writing it took several boxes of tissues.

* * *

Chapter 31

* * *

Isa waited, hidden away behind the tapestries of the East Hall, for Aro to pass close before stepping into the light. He didn't seemed surprised to see her, but didn't stop his brisk walk to his guest room.

When he entered the dark, cold chamber, Isa entered the room only enough to allow the door to close. "Did all things . . . go?"

Asking if it, "went well," while her stomach throbbed and sweat trailed down her cheeks did not feel like the right choice of words.

Lord Aro crossed the room to the window to pull back the curtains, letting the dim light spill in. "Things usually do when you know the right things to say."

"He agreed?" A violent whelp of sadness grew, but she tamped it down before it touched her eyes. "Thank you. I'm sure Essica will be grateful."

With a reserved smile, he nodded. "And how are you feeling about our arrangement?" He approached her slowly.

Isa stood tall and cleared her throat. Those sour twangs inside would dull once time passed, she was certain of it. "I intend on parting with you and your entourage come the end of your stay here. It should be fairly quick. Perhaps I shall already be on the road. Merely a small stop on the way."

"Your great escape? I don't see how you'll manage to come away with me considering you haven't come more than a few inches into the room. Am I out on a limb to conclude you don't trust me?"

"I trust no one." The words stung her dry throat as she dared to walk deeper into the room. "Would you like a drink of wine?"

Lord Aro chuckled darkly. "From you? I think it's best if I decline." His voice grew louder as he approached her by a little. "I know what you carry."

She couldn't deny her smile at that. "Me? I'm harmless."

Aro raised an eyebrow. "Harmless like Winter's Breath."

Isa tipped the glass to him and then sipped it, the dry wine doing little for her throat.

"Pity," he mused, "no one warned Honeycutt of that."

The utterance of Honeycutt's name caused Isa's throat to clamp down on a swallow of wine. Hand to her throat, she coughed against the ache and took another sip.

"Is it not what you wanted?" she asked, ignoring the guilt and shame that came with what she had done.

"Yes—" he began hastily, but slowed over the next words, "but now he's well." He stepped closer still, eyes following the line of her bodice.

"For some, weakness flees so quickly." Isa fought the urge to step back. It was one thing for the King to come toward her in such a way.

"Weakness?" He was incredulous, and Isa didn't know which weakness he was referring to: Isa's or Lord Honeycutt's.

Isa poured another glass before stepping to the side, keeping distance.

"Is that what drives you?" he said, his tone shifting dramatically. "A mere battle of strength over weakness? Your willpower over your estranged heart?"

"What would it look like? His death soon after Essica's arrest. It would have drawn suspicion."

Aro nodded slowly, his eyes still raking over her body in a way that now offended her.

"You did make successful arrangements with the King, did you not?" Her eyes wide and full of deep mistrust and curiosity.

Aro poured a glass of wine for himself while Isa looked out the window to the nothing beyond. "What is it about you that has Edward so smitten?"

Wine coursing through her mind sent her head floating, her tongue loosened. "Couldn't care less."

"Don't you at least want to know?"

"Not particularly. I saw an opportunity to advance myself and took it." Lies ran easily now, like water.

"Is position all that matters? It's a game to you?" A game of steps forward and back?"

"Always forward."

"With you as my courtesan perhaps we will then win the game?"

The country of Denali was far more charming, more accepting of Isa's kind. It gave her a bit of comfort, a sense of solidity, to know that she appealed to Aro in such a way. But that sense did not overcome her urge to step away from him again.

"You trust me that well?" she asked.

"Not while you have a knife in your bodice."

"I have no knife."

He reached out, slowly, and touched his hand to her hip. The contact, the first from any man other than the King, made her gasp. Inside, she didn't know what she felt.

"Whatever happened to it?" he asked, bringing his mouth close to hers. So close she could taste his breath, a spicy herb.

The liquor, his scent, the closeness, everything clouded her judgment.

"He took it."

"Stolen in the night? Like your virginity."

That drew a smile from her. " _That?_ No one stole it. It was mine to give away. And _that_ was during the day."

ooo

Hands shaking, Isa pulled the door to Aro's chamber shut. Still no sign of her Keeper. And for some reason the stark, bright, empty hall made Isa feel wary. As she made her way to her chambers she peered through doorways, behind the occasional tapestry, and over the bannister of the stairs. No one. Not a soul. The eeriness of it made her skip quickly to her room.

"What kept you?" The King's voice was thick with anger.

She responded with anger of her own, defensive. "The dollhouse game is over, is it not?"

He reached for her arm but she stepped back, catching the sole of her shoe on the rim of the carpet. She sprawled back on the floor, his hand hovering awkwardly in the air, grabbing nothing.

When he reached down to pull her up she swatted his hand away.

"What is your goal here, Isa?" The sound of his fist hitting the wall filled the room with the most grotesque noise. "To drive me thoroughly out of my mind?"

He groaned and growled through a slur of words she couldn't interpret.

Isa's eyes stayed fixed on him, no less beautiful for his rage.

"Are you injured?" he spoke over his shoulder.

"No," she scoffed, pushing herself up from the floor.

"Tell me what you're doing?"

Her eyelids fluttered indignantly. "I don't know what you mean."

"The hell you don't! What is this about? Aro coming to me, asking for you as if you're something to be traded for? Was it your idea?"

"So what if it was!" Hunched forward, she prowled the room, sharp eyes fixed on him. "Would that be so dreadful? I've been taken, claimed, chained and bound." She gripped handfuls of skirt, wrenching at the fabric.

"Oh!" she mocked his voice, "whatever will my Sweet Dollop Isa do without a floor to scrub!"

"Are you in love with him?"

They both fell silent.

Isa held her breath before forcing the air out with a wild laugh. "Absolutely not. Don't be silly."

"That's not the impression I got tonight."

"Tonight?" Isa laughed a little but was caught off guard by the implication. Was her Keeper keeping an eye on her after all? "We only talked."

"Speaking with eyes and mouths—"

"Meanwhile, you're seeing to your future bride." She swept her hand across the bedside table, sending a wreath of candles and florals to the floor. She craved to truly wound him this time, wishing her words were daggers. "How is she fairing after her spill in the garden? Shoes too dainty? Did she bleed? Oh how I hope so. Blue blood _still_ bleeds red."

He came across the room toward her and she raised a hand to strike out, keep him at bay.

"This has nothing to do with Tanya."

The King shoved her hand aside and pushed her back, pinning her to the wall, hands held overhead. Inside, she cursed him.

"I should have known that the moment I took you to Denali everything would spiral downward like this. Secret messages in your soup bowl?"

And the fence on which they often danced fell to the wayside. "Yes! Let's talk about Denali."

He snorted with absolute disgust. "Let's not."

"No, I think we should. For starters—Why Tanya? What is so damned important about her that you'll crawl through shards all to have her?"

He shoved against her wrists as he pushed away. "This is all about your jealousy of that foul cow?"

"If she's such a foul cow then why are you marrying her?"

Breathing hard, he stalked to the window, his hands spread wide on the sill. He leaned, setting his forehead to the cool pane.

"Because whatever your reason is, that's what severed us in two!" She slashed a finger through the air, flashing gritted teeth. "Not that we were close. Forced servitude is not a betrothal!

"You've made it my concern." Tears of hurt flowed. "You claim to love me but will expect me to lay under heart, ruled over by that heifer? You'll only forget me and then I'll truly be nothing!"

He turned his face slightly. "You'll never be nothing, not to me."

"Horse shit! I already am!" She stalked forward. The room felt as if it swayed and buckled with her approach.

All this time, so many things that had gone unsaid, veiled with flirting sentiments, dipped only lightly in raw emotion.

"I've had to take matters into my own hands, now. You've forced me into it. When that quivering quim takes to the throne what would you have done? Sold me off to some regent in the far Eastern Province? Only to die of some gangly disease. Pale and gaunt, my life all for naught. How much will I fetch you?"

Isa's fingers burned to reach out, to wrap her hands around his neck, to wind his length of hair tighter and tighter until it cut the air from his lungs. "Why not kill me now and have it done with?"

"Don't say such things."

"My blood will finally win you all you've wanted."

He turned, facing her anger. "Silence."

"Perhaps I should do it myself!" She stepped back, breathing so rough her belly hurt. Her hand reached out, snatching up the letter opener from the desk. And suddenly it seemed the only solution. As easy as stepping back and simply dropping off the edge of a castle wall.

"There really is no reason why I shouldn't?" The edge of metal felt ice cold. How much courage would it take?

In the moment that everything seemed to fall away from her, she was wrapped in tight, warm arms. He pressed his thumb hard to the inside of her wrist, the pressure forcing her grasp to weaken. She struggled to keep her fingers firmly around the handle.

"Don't be a fool!" He twisted his fingers deeper between the tendons.

"What's so much more important than me!"

"Potassium nitrate!" he cried out, hoarse and jilted.

It was jarring, shocking, utterly senseless. "What?" Her hand falling lax, the iron edge clattered to the floor, ringing like a bell. A small part of her which was removed from all of this—seated somewhere at the dining table in Appleton's house—knew what that meant.

"Saltpeter." He seemed agonized by this truth. "With it, my military will once again grow in size and strength."

Isa's thoughts were still crackling from the violent internal shift. "The strongest?" The truth of that, the implication, was boggling. "All this for military advantage?"

His eyes, wrapped in tears and wide with urgency, were as familiar as an alien beast. She looked to the floor, to the bell of her dress, understanding sinking in. Her anger shaped to this new reality.

The King stepped back, letting go of her. "I need potassium nitrate to create gunpowder, an explosive."

To think that for a short while she had thought the Pillary was harmless; almost acceptable. That the plan meant nothing beyond innocent intentions.

Blinded from the truth by lust.

"That's the purpose of the Pillary? To gain access to the region where it's mined?"

Her eyes filled with a blur of tears. War. Conquest. Destruction. More slaughter, more mass killings. Families ended, histories done. Bloodshed and deceit at every turn.

Everything had fallen into place. "Marriage to Tanya was the contingency plan?"

His forehead screwed up tightly, his mouth shaped as if tasting something sour. "Yes."

"Because that would give you access to the land where it's mined?"

"Yes."

Imagining that Masen, with Edward, was a home was all part of the King's greater guise. A lie. She was played like a pawn in a game, one in which she only thought she were an opponent. She turned away, gathering up the wreath and candles, suddenly of vital importance that they be set properly on the table. "I see."

The King slowly walked away, his footsteps retreating to the far side of the room.

Isa began to pick things apart, the fire in her mind burning through every thread and possibility in short order.

How clever—Isa huffed a breath of humor at the realization—the Pillary was truly meant to serve as a bridge, spanning the river. Indestructible. Taking over inch by inch, first with a foothold wide enough to carry an army across.

If Tanya was a contingency then what did that make her? King Edward was more clever than she thought. Here, she had come to see him as a struggling man: a scared boy on a King's throne.

"Why is it that peace is not in the cards for you?" she asked.

"That's Masen's mission. Our purpose. The country of Tarn established Masen with a narrow toe-hold to the Southwest. My family was assigned to further the cause at all costs. And I know—" he took a deep breath. "No, I believed that if only I could accomplish this mission I could fix everything that's been broken."

The fire in her heart dulled inside Isa, freezing over at the edge, the slick of ice returning. She regained her senses, shaking it off. She couldn't withdraw from things now.

"Thank you for being honest," she said, her voice smooth and controlled.

She left the bedside, crossing the room—it's cavernous space that she never cared for—to the buffet table where a flask of wine sat. She poured herself a glass which she sipped at lightly.

"Do you understand my position now?" he asked in earnest.

She nodded, holding the glass to her lips, her mind deep in thought on the distant future that would never be. They weren't meant to be together. "I understand."

Isa turned to him, taking him in with this new light. She saw a reflection of his father in his cheeks and his shoulders. The way he stood with his legs spread, knees locked. Perhaps the softness she was drawn to had been left behind somewhere, boxed up.

Gravely, he considered her expression. "Do you?"

"Yes." She turned and collected up the decanter of rich wine. Her heart raced, but the warmth of her blood didn't cut through the cold. She pressed a hand to her chest to ease the pressure. Her heart swelled and ached, like lava rising underneath a frozen landscape. "It all makes sense now."

She crossed the room, glass held out for him. She smiled as she kissed him. Her heart beat loudly—too loud?

"A secret of my own?" She smiled and set down her own glass. "I think I drink too much wine these days."

Essica? What would become of her? Painful how good intentions sometimes lead nowhere. Perhaps there was still hope. But the thought was feeble in the far corner of Isa's mind.

Once the glass was empty she raised up on her toes and kissed the King softly. It started small, intended as a bit of nothing, but it deepened. His hesitance turned into a fever, hers rose to match. One last time together. He let go of the glass and it shattered on the floor.

As they touched and caressed, Isa thought of how much she'd miss this: the way his lips shaped to hers, firm and insistent but not overbearing; his fingers on her skin; the way their breaths came quick; the deep, lustful moans he'd give.

And now, in sight of the end of everything, she thought his name. Not m'Lord, not King, but Edward. Edward, the lost and vile and sweet and wretched. Edward divided, the same as Isa.

Tears clouded her vision as guilt, shame, and regret threatened to swallow her whole.

He wiped the wetness away.

Why did everything that meant anything have to go to spoils? His fingers undid the lacing of his tunic and as he did so she couldn't hold back a choking sob.

He soon stood bare, breathing hard.

Before being taken over by emotions too completely, she asked about her friend, "Essica? What of her?"

"She's already free."

A seed of peace, small, almost unnoticeable, shimmered somewhere inside. "So quickly?"

He smiled against the skin of her neck. "Because I love you." He met her eyes, earnestly trying to convey the truth of those words. "She's gone to Telnit with the grain." Choking on a laugh, Edward kissed her before she could respond.

Inside, a hint of peace and comfort was drowned out by hurt, shock, and pain.

Isa pushed against the swirl of damning thoughts, denying herself the urge to question these final decisions. This is what needed to be done to bring an end to everything. No more lives snuffed like candles. Lord Aro was right to work for this. Again, she melted into the moment, into the King's arms.

They stumbled to the bed. When Edward's thighs met the edge she pushed him back. With a steady hand she held his shaft and fell to her knees to take him into her mouth greedily. Pity and guilt led her to give him one last moment. One last pleasure.

The muscles of his stomach rippled tightly when he pushed up from the bed on his elbows. His thighs shook violently, deliciously. It didn't take but a few moments of the effort, wet and hot, for him to find his release. Tasting for all the world of a fruit that grew on the northern shore of home.

His quickened breath didn't dissipate when she released him. Slowly, she climbed the bed and lay close. Body tense, eyes wide, he searched the room. She kissed his cheek, and then his neck. "I love you too, but this isn't about us anymore."

For the last time, Isa slipped away from him, her feet touching the floor before realization struck him fully.

Grasping at his belly, his legs drew up to his chest. He stretched, reaching, trying to crawl across the bed to her. The effort only increased the disorientation, heightening the dizziness. She knew, because she felt something quite the same weeks before when she had only licked poison from her thumb. That moment stood in bitter contrast to this. It was as if she were a bird on the twisted iron railing outside, watching through the glazed window at the fact that she had just given him a drink laced with Illian Yui.

All those many times Isa had jumped up to intercept the wine, worrying it was tainted. Hating him, but sparing him undo misery. To think that she should have been protecting him from herself all this time. Perhaps that blade would have been better sliding across her wrist.

Edward grasped the blanket, fisting it tightly as he struggled to make his way to her.

"I trusted you." His words came with a deep, hollow gasp.

"I think I trusted you, too." The words carried with them the pain of all the apologies she could give. Truly, he had trusted her and even loved her in his own way, but it wasn't enough. "But I can't let you destroy another nation."

The look in his eyes told her that he knew this would happen all along.


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32: The Last Chapter

* * *

In the madness that followed—the guards rushing in and out, the doctor being summoned—Isa slipped away. This moment, avenging her slain family, should have brought with it comfort. Brightness that she could feel on the inside. Assurance that her father was content with what she had done. Some type of acceptance. Love from beyond the grave.

But she moved in a strange fog—almost floating as she went—her heart having darkened to a shade of night.

She had done it to spare scores of thousands a doomed future. Wasn't that a worthy cause? So why did she feel so heavy from it?

As she left the passage and stepped into the bright light of the Eastern Wing, she choked with emotion. How had things come to this? Her soul felt as if it had cracked in two. The half, the caring self, lay bleeding out. It hung heavy, like a weight formed to the shape of her foul heart. She tainted him—sickly and shaking, gasping and pale—and then she left him. Sweat on his brow, his eyes wide.

She would go to hell for this.

" _Not this way," he rasped out, clutching her dress when she came to him in a moment of regret._

Gritting her teeth, she staggered to Aro's door, knocking wildly. What followed was a strange slow swim of events. Her asking for an audience with Aro though it was late in the night. They refused, she argued. Isa raised such a noise that Aro himself opened his door. She stepped inside, eyes unfocused.

"My Isa," Aro said once the door was shut while her ears still rang with the King's rasping voice. "Returned to me so soon?"

Aro held his hand out for her but his light mood poked at her like needles. She walked past.

"You were right not to trust him." Her words clanged in the air.

"Truths hurt, hmm?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Deeply."

"Come here then, have some wine."

The thought culled a hollow from her chest. The King had trusted her enough to drink.

"I came to inform you that the Pillary Proposal, the marriage to Lady Tanya, was in effort to gain access to saltpeter."

Aro, in a strange show, brought his hands together to clap.

"You have saved the future of a nation," he added with his voice light. "And yet you don't seem the least bit pleased. A humble heart, that is very... endearing."

He came to her, gently wrapping one arm around her shoulders. His body hot and shocking against hers. She wanted to step away. Was that who she was? Humble?

Hardly. The words 'callous quim' seemed more fitting.

"I only did it to save both countries a war," she explained.

He laughed, exuberant. "Oh." He grinned wickedly. "What terrible deed have you done that brings tears to your eyes?"

He led her to a table nearby, pulling out a chair which she refused. The sleek gloss on the surface brought back once-pleasant memories that she'd rather forget. He took a seat instead.

"Has your golden pen found its mark?" He couldn't be more excited by this news.

Isa glared at him for making so light of the tragedy in it all.

He held his hands up, surrendering to her anger. "Whatever you need to feel in order to assure yourself it was the right thing to do."

Floating, feeling like a fall leaf, she stared at the scar above his eye.

Aro held out his hand for Isa. She didn't take it. Slowly, with careful restraint, he reached forward and took up her hand, bringing his mouth to her knuckles. Isa didn't resist. No one was around to object.

No one but Isa, a part of her still connected to the King, that part wouldn't be silenced. Did she imagine it would be so easy? So simple? If she and Aro tried to flee they wouldn't make it through the front gate, let alone the northern border days away.

He stroked his thumb over her knuckles. "You're not the first to take to such measures to bring an end to tyranny. There have been plans afoot for many a year. Before Edward took to the throne. I knew his father, you see? We had both faced each other for the first time after the last battle was fought, and won." He let go of her hand, leaning back in his chair.

"A soldier caught up behind our line after the end came. Caught me by the scruff and gave me this—" he motioned to the scar over his right eye. "Blood in my eyes, I chased after him but caught no one."

Absently, his hand fell to the table and he traced the fine grain lines with his fingertips.

"Sometimes fighting an enemy, even if you win, leaves scars."

Inside, Isa began to wilt. What was happening across the way with Edward? Was it too late for her to find the cure?

"Masen is a vicious enemy," Lord Aro continued. "They've taken over and divided Denali clean in two. They intended on doing the same with Dwyer. They would have, if it weren't for the untimely death of King Brisbane." He smirked at that.

Isa looked to the door, wondering why it hadn't opened yet with guards charging through to take her.

"Over the new days you are to lay quiet."

Hastily, she wiped away tears. He took up her hand and kissed away the salty wetness.

But ghastly thoughts of Edward—face strained and body shaking—kept her from feeling any comfort. When she stood, her feet felt like iron weights: heavy and solid, difficult to lift. But she forced herself to move, to pace, fearing that if she stood still for too long the ground would swallow her up.

"What then? After we're there?" she asked, steeling herself against the urge to run from the room.

"Denali will then proceed with our efforts."

" _Your_ efforts?" She paused next to a piece of heavy oak luggage boasting slots and pockets, open like a cabinet. Something glinted inside.

He studied her closely. The air around them crackling to life again. "Tell me, did you stay to see his breath leave him?"

 _All Gold for the Holiest of Crowns._ But she hadn't given all.

She didn't answer. She didn't have to.

He clucked his tongue in chastisement. "That won't work at all."

His brashness took her aback.

"I didn't do it to _satisfy_ you," she stated. "He wouldn't have let me come. I had to warn you somehow."

"Consider me warned." Aro's throat pulsed as he clenched his teeth. "Now an enraged King will be stalking the halls for you."

Aro ventured away to drink his wine, taking slow, steady sips.

With Edward, Isa's constant time spent in his presence, she could sense more or less what he was mulling over. Not with Aro. He was a solid wall. An enigma. Isa felt blind near him.

"I know." He swept his arm through the air. "For Denali and all the little children."

His snide comment sent her into a tailspin. That was the right reason, wasn't it? Yet Lord Aro's remarks, full of bitterness and condescension, made her question her actions. Being forced to judge herself, her decision, made her bristle.

"And I've uncovered his true intentions, have I not?"

"You have."

"When you leave, preferably at first light, you will take me with you."

"Why in the morning and not now?" One eyebrow lifted.

Angel. "I have someone here I need to see before I go."

"And us? Do I have your company?" He emphasized the last word, heavy with suggestion, his eyes dropping from her face.

"Our arrangement was for you to give me solace in Denali," she explained, "in exchange for freeing Essica. Yet the King tells me Essica is in Telnit."

Aro stood tall, arms crossed, the velvet along his shoulders crinkling, but he said nothing in response to his lie being exposed. All Isa felt was a bit of relief. Whatever was to happen with her next would not bode ill for Essica. She was out of harm's way.

"I'm needing strength, Isa. Strength in numbers. I have vested most of my life attempting to squelch the threat of Masen. Ruses, ploys.

"I've attempted to string a line of twisted tales so vast Masen could no longer tell who was friend and who was foe."

Her father's voice came to her, loud, the canter of the words to the beat of her heart, _Keep your friends close, your enemies closer._

It was a surprise to hear her father now giving her guidance and courage which she hadn't known she was in need of.

"So tell me," she said quietly. "What ruse are you spinning now?"

He grinned wide. "A successful game of Hidden Gems, Stolen Treasures."

"Ah." She smiled, leaning against the now closed travel case. She had learned of this childhood game. One child would take precious items, declare one the gem, and hide them. Others were to steal or protect.

"In your game, which am I? The gem or a thief?"

He lifted the glass to his mouth to drink again, now a sight that made Isa's stomach twist painfully in its unrelenting knot.

"It worked out beautifully." Leaning back, sitting lightly on the table, Lord Aro leveled his gaze at her. "Until today, I myself could not tell which side you played for. His or mine."

"It seems that nothing's changed," she added only for herself to hear.

He ran his finger over his lower lip, eyes still focused on her. "Your plan was incredibly clever. For a while you even fooled me."

"Oh?" she said, intrigued to hear more, sensing a shift, a coming truth.

"Oh yes. Bringing an end to the threat which Queen Dora represented was relatively simple. No one was suspicious then, her efforts were kept silent even to the grave."

While he continued to speak, "Brisbane was much more challenging," Isa's eyes went wide and she clenched her teeth, her hands balled into fists.

That was quite the revelation: he was the one responsible for the death of Edward's mother, the Queen.

This man she had now given herself to—the man she thought was on her side—had been against her from before the start. It was all a greater plot. Aro against Dwyer. Aro against Denali. Aro against Masen. Her head throbbed with this realization and her vision blurred with the perverse rage that began to boil inside as the full depth of his reach came to the surface.

All this time she had hated the wrong man. Everyone now seemed strangely innocent, no one at fault, not even Edward's father, King Brisbane. Aro's twisted and estranged intentions overshadowed all else. He was the reason her family had been ended.

Ten gold should have gone to Aro. The knife slitting apart his belly before finding a home in his heart.

His voice droned on, but all that Isa could hear was the buzz between her ears. Her body thrummed with a vicious humming, the same salacious intent that had her striking out at Edward.

But she had hated the wrong man.

The wrong man had borne the burden of Aro's actions against both Dwyer and Masen. Everyone playing the pawn. Even King Brisbane was caught up in Aro's trap.

How had she not seen it? How had everyone not known!

". . . driven to act. But Edward? All I had to do was let you take the reins." He lifted his empty glass as if to salute. "To Isa. Who accomplished what a host of infiltrators could not. Desire and lust wielded as weapons."

He tipped his head to her, finding some sense of honor in orchestrating such a thing.

 _Desire and lust wielded as weapons._ Weapons . . . curses, the King had taken hers.

Oblivious to what built inside her, Aro turned away. "You should drink with me, my Isa. To a new life."

It should be him crying out for mercy at the end of an executioner's taut rope. Where were the guards? Just how far did Aro's reach go?

And here he stood, talking aimlessly, bestowing his own praises.

With his back to her—one hand held up a glass, the other gripped the body of the flask, tipping it to pour—he was sheathed in ignorance. It was almost a pity.

Isa's heart pushed wildly, stirring every fiber of her being into absolute awareness. This was her moment. Fifteen months had now come and gone and this is how it all would end—nobly, with dignity and resolution, not racing away in the cold of morning through the trees.

Panic and anxiety did not cause her to shake.

Aro rambled on with his meaningless words. Sweat brought on by the heat of wine caused the white plumes of his sleeves to cling to his skin. He wore a soft fabric that caught the light.

Grinning, eyes bright, unawares, he turned with glasses raised. Isa's eyes burned fierce for a brief moment before she forced serenity to return.

"For you, my dear."

He held the amber wine out for her. It seemed to shine as if lit from within, but it was only a reflection of the firelight striking deep and shattering into beams of orange-yellow brilliance.

Eyes on Aro, Isa came close, mere inches away. Desire and lust a mighty weapon.

"Thank you," she said, the words flowing freely from her tongue. "For being so forthcoming with me. I've been in the dark all this time."

He nodded, almost with a reverent bow. "I knew you would understand the necessity of it."

Eye to eye with her true enemy, she lifted one hand to take the wine, wrapping her fingers around his which held fast the stem. Traitor eyes. A traitor heart.

Isa hesitated for a moment—taking in a cleansing breath and asking for Abdon's blessing, for his steady hand—and then thrust her other hand upward, inward, swiftly piercing Aro's flesh between a narrow of ribs, driving his own blade quick in to the expanse of his lungs.

Aro's eyes sprang open wide and a shocked gurgle escaped his throat. His body lurched and buckled, driving himself further onto the sharp edge. She clenched his hand tightly, a slosh of wine spilled over the rim, wetting her clothes.

Pain contorted his face as he wheezed and choked on his breath. The other glass, in an effort to crash it against the table, fell from his hand. Shards pricked the tops of Isa's feet. Her arms, once too weak to lift a broadsword to spare her life, were now strong enough to keep her foe near as she plunged the blade deeper. Each of his desperate and pleading movements surged through the blade and throughout her arm. She felt it, every shudder and jolt, in her muscles, in her breath, to her very core. The feeling of the end. The absolute.

Eyes fixed on his, she stepped forward, pinning him between the edge of the table and her small frame. Body shuddering, arms quaking, Aro clawed upward, reaching for her neck, squeezing, squeezing. Isa's vision dimmed, her head throbbed. Aro's hand shook against the tender skin of her neck, losing strength. He struggled to bring his other hand to her throat but she still held firm to it. Their hands clasped tightly around the stem of the glass, the contents having spilled out. His chest heaved wildly, drawing against nothing.

Caught in the last throes of his life, they sagged and dropped to the floor. Legs tangled, arms locked tight. Aro's efforts to end her and free himself, seek out his own retribution, only made his heart beat faster, hastening the flow of blood from the wound. He fought for words, but only a moist warble escaped.

Heat flowed slick over her hands, taking with it Aro's fight. His veins jumped under his skin as his heart beat erratically, attempting to force the last of his blood through his body, only quickening the end.

Open mouthed, he gasped and struggled for breath. His skin paled. His eyes widened.

Collapsing against her, Aro struggled to speak again, but the breath had already seized in his lungs.

"You're the Tyrant." To her, these words were a soothing ointment, her own deliverance. The sense that this was the moment she had been moving toward grew strong.

The blade through his lungs having robbed him of breath, no sound other than a drowning gurgle came. Red flowed down his chin, dripping to her bodice. Heat everywhere. The scent of iron, salt and sweat.

His hands on her neck finally slacked, and with a shudder, his body fell heavy and strangely limp.

The echo of his struggle faded. The air stood still.

Isa let him go then, slowly lowering him to the floor with great care. She studied him—the man who was at fault for all the hardship and struggle of so many, the man whose blood was so tainted it ran nearly black—and she felt only a sense of finality. An end to misery.

Whatever happened next mattered little. For this, her father and brothers could rest well. Mother could be comforted. One day, hopefully soon, Isa would join them in the afterlife.

A strange sensation took hold, one foreign and odd. Isa's anger, which she had clung to for so long, had fled with his last breath. None of it was left to fill her now.

Isa shoved against him—still warm with the last measures of life—until he slid from her legs. She pushed up to her hands and knees. After her breath steadied, she stood, stepping back, stumbling over the length of her own dress which was now soiled and slick, cooling against her skin. Hastily, she stripped away the soiled garment—a brilliant cream now streaked with darkened blood—like stripping away the faded threads of an old life.

Eyes wide, mouth open. He lay there, still, unmoving. His soul gone.

After an untold length of time passed Isa turned away from his body. She let her head fall back, trying to collect her senses, waiting for the earth underneath her feet to still.

When she opened her eyes an emotion erupted inside her so fiercely it took her breath away. There in the doorway stood the King, her King. A hand firm on his stomach, the other on the hilt of his unsheathed sword. Edward. His body quivered. The strain of standing evident in the set of his cheeks. His skin, hair, and clothes drenched with sweat.

He never looked more beautiful, more alive. Astonishing. Radiant.

She ran, stumbling with every step, crying loud with apologies as she wrapped her arms around him. He pressed his face to her hair, breathing in deep.

Leaning back, smiling through her tears, Isa looked him over. "But how?" she asked in disbelief. Even after the foul act she had committed he stood here, loving her.

"Your boogie box."

Sue! Bless her!

Isa chuckled at his snide joke, his humor a relief. "Is it unforgivable?"

He shook his head and kissed her forehead. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

Isa laughed through her tears and wrapped her arms about him, enjoying the feel of his body against hers, familiar and new at the same time. His blade, unneeded, fell to the floor. He embraced her tightly, cool leather and heated skin on the smooth bare of her back.

Edward lifted her face to his. Meeting his eyes without anger caused no pain to grow at her temples, no vileness to seep through her blood.

"I've loved you so much, Edward. I've hated myself for it."

"You know I've always loved you." His eyes brimmed over and he laughed, his breath smelling of tart wine, the air swelling and pulsing lively with the sound. "A truce?"

She shook her head, grinning with pure delight. "No Pillary. No Tanya."

"Agreed." His warm, gray eyes searched hers, stirring nothing inside Isa but sweet adoration. "But I'm still in need of a wife."

A fresh flood of tears met her eyes and she kissed him with wild, brilliant passion, her hands caught up in the length of his hair. As they lost themselves in each other Isa was filled with an emotion that was far stronger than happiness and more potent than love.

 _The End . . . Perhaps_

* * *

 _You didn't think I'd honestly kill Edward, did you! Aro simply had to go._

 _Thank you for reading! I know this story often feels like a tangled mess and a wild ride. I appreciate your curiosity and patience._


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